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Vol, 17, No. 818. Nov. 17, 1886. Annual Subicription, $30.00, 


ONCE 


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Author of “FAIR WOMEN,” “JUNE, 


Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1884, by John W. Lovell Co- 


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HENRY GEORGE’S LATEST WORK 


Protectioa or Free Trafle ? 

A3 EXAMINATION OF THE TARIFF QUESTION WITH ESPECIAL REGARD 
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“PAPA’S OWN GIRL 

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ONCE AGAIN. 


BY MRS. FORRESTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

A YOUNG man and a pretty girl madly in love. The ad- 
verb is correct. Love, like anger, is a brief madness. 
Love, when every question of prudence, of expediency, of 
consideration for the future, is flung recklessly to the 
winds, is a disastrous form of madness. 

The man is much madder than the girl, inasmuch as his 
passion is a thousandfold stronger than hers. She, indeed, 
pretty, fair, and foolish, without much character, has 
hitherto been uninfluenced by strong feeling of any kind. 
Her lover’s fire has, however, kindled a certain amount of 
answering warmth in her breast, and he has succeeded in 
persuading her that life without him would not be worth 
living. She is weak ; she is yielding ; she has a little— only 
a little— touch of romance, and she is younger than her 
nineteen years warrant. She has always leaned on a 
stronger nature. Until she met, just one month ago, the 
rock which at present offers her its support, she had leaned 
upon her mother; but the breast of the stalwart young 
soldier seemed to suggest a more attractive shelter than 
the maternal bosom, and, resolutely shutting her eyes to 
any but the most agreeable and seductive thoughts of the 
future, Miss Dulcie proposed to herself to repose blissfully 
and continuously on the impassioned heart of Mr. Noel 
Trevor for the next five decades. 

The absolutely insuperable obstacle represented by the 
young gentleman’s want of fortune added the necessary 
fuel to the flames. 

Mrs. Vernon, Dulcie’ s mother — a thorough woman of the 
world, with a nature as strong as her daughter’s was weak 
—was not in the very smallest degree likely to be influ- 
enced by any amount of tears and prayers from despair- 
ing lovers. She knew, or thought she knew, the exact 
value of love — so called by rash and inconsiderate youth — 


3 


ONCE AGAIN. 


and would not have permitted Cupid to unfurl one feather 
of his wings under her roof unless he brought substantial 
offerings along with his false and foolish vows. 
forsooth! Perjured little wretch! Source of abiding 
misery and wretchedness since Time began ! Dulcie had 
met Mr. Trevor in a country house, where, most unusual 
to relate, she had been a guest without her mother. After 
tliey had danced, ridden, walked, and sung together, the 
iirst symptoms of madness discovered themselves: the 
moment they were parted the disease assumed a serious 
form. 

One November afternoon Mr. Trevor, feeling it utterly 
impossible to remain another twenty -four hours without 
seeing the only object for which he at present existed, re- 
solved to take the desperate measure of calling at the house 
which shrined his angel, and, about the hour when the 
feminine and modest orgy which is performed each after- 
noon in the family circle was likely to be in full swing, he 
knocked at the door of No. — Grosvenor Street and pre- 
pared to face the dragon Tvho guarded the golden apple he 
coveted. For Dulcie had represented her mamma to him 
somewhat in the light of a dragon — knowing as well as she 
did that lady’s opinion on the subject of impecunious ad- 
mirers. Noel, being a straightforward young soldier, had 
interspersed his vows with lamentations on the limited 
condition of his finances, and, whilst pleading ardently for 
her love and her hand, had not scrupled to represent his 
own unfitness to receive the gift. 

He had fondly imagined that Dulcie would in some man- 
ner have paved the way for his visit, have prepared her 
mother’s mind for an approaching suitor, but he reckoned 
without his fair. Dulcie was an arrant coward, very much 
in awe of her mother, and had only mentioned her meet- 
ing with Mr. Trevor in so casual a manner that it had not 
given Mrs. Vernon the smallest arriere-pensee. But Noel 
bad not been five minutes in her charming drawing-room 
before that astute lady grasiDed the state of affairs. Mr. 
Trevor was in love with her daughter, and, from the slight 
confusion and excitement in the manner of her usually 
placid Dulcie, she divined that his feeling was recipro- 
cated. 

As she knew nothing of Mr. Trevor, his connections and 
affairs, his desirability or the reverse, her behavior to him 
was tinted by a courteous neutrality ; she was very pleas- 
ant, very civil, but she gave him no opportunity of ex- 
changing a glance or word alone with Dulcie, and when 
he took his leave she did not invite him to repeat his 
Ausit. He prolonged his call, fraught as it was to him with 
embarrassment and discomfort, hoping against hope that 


ONCE AG AIK 


S 

other guests would come in and divert Mrs. Vernon’s at- 
tention from himself and her daughter, thus giving them 
a chance of communicating eternal promises of fidelity 
with their eyes, and perhaps by whispers ; but on this un 
fortunate afternoon he was the only visitor, and when he 
went out from the presence which he had entered with a 
beating and hopeful heart it was with a confused feeling 
of having beaten his head against, not a brick wall, but a 
velvet cushion. 

“ Who is this Mr. Trevor, Dulcie?’’ inquired her mother, 
when the door had closed upon their visitor. Her tone 
was airy and indifferent. 

Dulcie blushed and pretended to arrange the teacups. 

“ I do not know, mamma,” she returned, in a confused 
voice. 

“ Is he related to the Trevors?” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

“ Who are his people?” 

“I— I don’t think he has any— particularly,” stumbled 
Dulcie. “ His mother died a year ago, and he has not any 
father or brothers or sisters.”" 

“ Where does he live?” 

“ I don’t think he lives any where. He is in the — th, and 
his regiment is going to India in a month or two.” 

Mrs. Vernon involuntarily heaved a slight sigh of re- 
lief. India is an excellent place for impecunious young 
woldiers. 

“How did the Fawcetts come to know him?” she in- 
quired, with symptoms of waning interest in her tone. 

‘ ‘ I — I think he was at school with Charlie. ’ ’ 

“ Rather foolish of them to ask him there with two mar- 
riageable daughters,” observed Mrs. Vernon, looking full 
at poor embarrassed Dulcie, if, as I gather from what you 
say, he has no money and no expectations. However, he 
seems rather a dull young man, so perhaps they do not con- 
sider him dangerous.” 

The stab penetrated Dulcie’ s breast, but she gave no 
sign. She understood well enough what her mother 
meant ; she knew, as she had known before, that the case 
was hopeless. Tears came into her eyes, and she turned 
away to hide them, but Mrs. Vernon read her face as an 
open page. 

“This,” she said to herself, with a sense of irritation, 
‘ ‘ comes of my being foolish enough to allow her to stay in 
a house without me. Really I should have given Agnes 
Fawcett credit for a little more discretion than to invite a 
man of that sort.” 

Meantime Noel was walking in deep dejection to his 
club. Arrived there, he proceeded to the smoking-room, 


4 


OKCF. AGAIN, 


flung himself into a low chair, and having, like Jupiter, 
concealed himself in clouds, gave the rein to the most dis- 
mal thoughts and imaginings. He conceived a hatred of 
Mrs. Vernon which that courteous and well-bred lady had 
certainly done little to merit during their interview; every- 
thing assumed a tinge of inky despair; the world was Pan- 
dora’s box without its one redeeming feature. If he could 
only write to his beloved one ! But he felt certain that 
dreadful mother of hers opened her letters. Communicate 
with her in some way he must and would ; but how? 

He dined without appetite, and retired again to seek the 
soothing influence of nicotine, finally deciding to write to 
Dulcie a letter which, even if it fell, as he foresaw it would, 
into the hands of Mrs. Vernon, could not do any serious 
mischief. He took up his pen, and, after many nibblings 
at its tjiil, for he was not very clever at expressing his 
thoughts on paper, wrote : 

“ Dear Miss Vernon, —I am quite ashamed that I have 
only just remembered the song I promised to get you. ’ ’ 
(“ Of course she’ll tumble to that,” he soliloquized, grind- 
ing the pen in his strong young teeth.) “But I shall get it 
the first thing to-morrow and send it.” (After this Mr. 
Trevor took at least ten minutes to decide on his next sen- 
tence.) “I hope,” he ultimately continued, “ that I shall 
have the pleasure of seeing you again before I go to India. 
Do you walk in the Eow sometimes in the morning, or 
might not we do a play together? Believe me, yours sin- 
cerely, Noel Trevor.” 

“There!” he ejaculated, relieved; “ there is nothing in 
that that the old cat may not see, and Dulcie— Jove ! what 
a sweet, dear name it is ! — must answer it. She’ll under- 
stand, of course, little darling, why I’ve made it so cool 
and formal.” 

Mrs. Vernon was rather vexed at the discovery she had 
made, but did not allow it to trouble her seriously. Her 
Dulcie was so well brought up, so thoroughly under her 
control, that she could not imagine her turning restive; 
and then. Heaven be thanked ! this young man was going 
to India, and Dulcie would straightway forget all about 
him. The only thing to do was to^ prevent their meeting in 
the meantime. Mrs. Vernon thoroughly considered the 
question in all its bearings ; whether opposition would be 
dangerous, whether it would be more prudent to pretend 
to see nothing; but, on the whole, knowing her own 
strength and Dulcie’ s weakness, she concluded the best 
plan would be to make the girl understand that young 
Trevor was not to be thought of for an instant. 


ONCE AGAIN. 5 

Mrs. Vernon was an ambitious woman, and had very dif- 
ferent views for her pretty daughter. 

She woke earlier than usual the following morning as 
often happens to people when they have vexing thoughts 
wait at their pillow-heads, and had plenty of time 
to reflect on the subject in every aspect before her maid 
came to call her. 

“ Bring aZZ the lettei’s to me when the postman comes 
Morton, she said, having an intuition that Mr. Trevor 
would probably employ that messenger of love. The result 
proved the correctness of her suspicions. 

A letter bearing her daughter’s name, with the large de- 
yice of a military club on the flap of the envelope, was 
handed to her with her own correspondence. 

“ To Miss Dulcie 

she read, in a schoolboyish hand. Without hesitation 
Mrs. Vernon broke the seal, and read the contents of the 
letter, seeing completely through Mr. Trevor’s ruse at the 
first glance. When she and her daughter met at break- 
fast, her manner was more than usually kind and affec- 
tionate. It was not until the conclusion of the sociable lit- 
tle meal that she alluded to the disagreeable subject 
weighing on her mind. She spoke in a very kind but a 
very firm voice, so that Dulcie might know there was no 
appeal from her decision. 

“Dulcie, dear "—taking up the envelope and pausing for 
a moment with it in her hand — “ this came for you this 
morning. I do not approve of young men writina- to you 
and I opened it. ” o j , 

Dulcie blushed furiously. She was indignant at her pre- 
cious missive having been tampered with, and she was ter- 
ribly frightened lest Noel should have given vent to any 
endearing expressions in it that might draw down the vials 
of her mother’s wrath on their devoted heads. 

She took it from Mrs. Vernon’s hand, but was too para- 
lyzed by her emotions to attempt to open it. 

“ Head it,” said her mother, suavely. “ You must an- 
swer It. I shall tell you what to say.’’ And Mrs. Vernon 
was obhgmg enough to turn away to the window, in order 
to mitigate her timorous daughter's confusion. 

Dulcie comprehended her lover’s stratagem. There had 
been no question of his sending her any song, but she un- 
derstood that it was a device on his part to write to her 
and an intimation where he might be addressed. ’ 

Her mother gave her plenty of time to read the note be- 
fore she returned to the table. 

_ “I dare say,” she remarked, quite affably, “that Mr 
Irevor is an excellent young man; but I do not wish him 


6 


ONCE AGAIN, 


to entertain any mistaken ideas that might lead to disap- 
pointment later on; so I will make a little draft of a note, 
and when the song arrives you shall write it and send it 
off. ” 

Dulcie answered not a word. She sat holding the letter 
and looking at the fire. Mrs. Vernon took this silence as 
implying complete submission. She had not, indeed, ex- 
pected any resistance from her habitually docile daughter. 
But then Dulcie had never yet been, or fancied herself, in 
love. 


Resolute people with strong wills are very often unpre- 
pared for the commonest weapon of the weak— deceit. 
When they command and their victim appears passive, 
they too often take it for granted that their will has tri- 
umphed and is acquiesced in. 

Mrs. Vernon came up to Dulcie and kissed her, feeling 
all the benevolence of a generous victor. 

“You know, dear child,” she said, “ my first object in 
life is your happiness.” 

And with a kind little pressure on Dulcie’ s shoulder, and 
scarcely remarking that her embrace was not returned, or 
if she did, making allowance for the girl’s disappointment, 
she went off light-heartedly to' her boudoir, to make the 
draft that was to crush Mr. Trevor’s presumptuous hopes. 

A dull feeling of rebellion surged in slow waves over Dul- 
cie’s heart. Why was she to submit to her mother’s fiat 
in a matter so all-important to her? She loved Noel; he 
loved her; why should their young hearts be blighted for 
the sake of ambition ? If her mother had outgrown all 
memories of love and youth (Dulcie took leave to doubt 
whether there were any such episodes to be remembered), 
why was she to be condemned to a life without romance ? 
Why should she be sacrificed to vanity and ambition ? 
She felt sure — with smothered resentment — that if any 
horrid old wretch with a title or a great deal of money 
came forward as a suitor, her mother would be ready to 
drive her to the altar in spite of herself. Vague thoughts 
of resistance flitted through the girl’s brain, but she had 
sufficient consciousness of her own weakness to realize that 
a hand-tO'hand combat with her mother would leave her 
vanquished and weaponless before a minute had elapsed. 

She would write the letter that her mother dictated ; she 
would seem to acquiesce; but, before that, she would write 
another letter on her own account, explaining to Noel that 
the one he would receive later was simply sent at her 
mother’s dictation, and was in no way to be taken as the 
expression of her own sentiments. 

Mrs. Vernon returned, draft in hand, before Dulcie had 
finished her cogitations. 


ONCE AGAIN. '/ 

“ Come, dear, and write it at once; then it will be done 
with!” said mamma, persuasively. 

And Dulcie, still without a word, followed her mother to 
the boudoir, and, sitting down at the writing-table, indited 
the following lines to Mr. Trevor : 

“Dear Mr. Trevor,— I have just received the song. 
Thank you for sending it. We are not going out in the 
evening at present, as my mother has a cold, and we do 
not walk in the park in the winter. 

“ Believe me, yours truly, 

“Dulcie Vernon.” 

Mrs. Vernon had thought it quite possible that Dulcie 
would remonstrate about the extreme coldness and for- 
mality of the note, and was agreeably surprised to see her 
copying it without comment. When it was finished and 
the envelope directed, she lighted a taper and affixed a neat 
little red seal to it to make quite sure that it should not be 
tampered with. 

“ 1 must go out this fine morning,” remarked Dulcie, her 
task finished, and her mother responded cheerfully : 

“ Yes, do, my dear. Morton shall go with you. You do 
not want to start before twelve, I suppose? It is a quarter 
to eleven now. Will you not practice your singing a little 
first?” 

But Dulcie had something else to do than to practice 
singing. She retired to her bedroom and wrote another— 
quite a different— letter to Mr. Trevor. A certain amount 
of fear and conscious guilt trembled at her heart. She had 
never written to a young man before. But the idea had' 
taken firmly hold of her that she had a right to bestow her 
heart where she chose, and that if she was doing a bold and 
wrong thing her mother had driven her to it. 

Although her door was locked, her heart palpitated very 
distinctly as she wrote the words “ Dearest Noel,” and al- 
most involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder to make 
sure that no one was standing behind her. Keassured, she 
continued : 

‘ ‘ Mamma has made me write the most horrid note in 
answer to yours. Of course I was obliged to do as she told 
me, but you will understand— won't you? — that it is not 
my fault. Wasn't it ivretched yesterday not being able to 
say a word to each other alone? It hardly ever happens 
that we do not have three or four people calling in the 
afternoon. I suppose ma mma suspects something, and she 
thinks of nothing but money and position, and is always 
saying that love is all nonsense, and that people are sure to 
be unhappy if they are poor, Avhereas if they are rich, and 
get tired of each other, or dnn’<^ get on, they have other 


8 


ONCE AGAIN 


things to fall back upon. Isn’t it horrid f She won't let 
me go near the park, I know, for fear I should meet you ; 
but I mean to walk every morning now up Bond Street, 
through Cavendish Square, and up Portland Place to the 
Regent’s Park, a place I hate, but I shall not hate it if 1 
meet you there. Morton, our maid, always walks out with 
me, but she is a good old thing, and won’t tell of us, I 
know. Of course you won’t come to-day, because you 
won’t get this in time; but I shall look forward to seeing 
you to-morrow. Always, dearest Noel, yours, 

“Dulcie. 

“ P.S.— Write to me and direct the envelope to Mrs. Mor- 
ton in a feigned hand, and don’t write on those envelopes 
with the club crest.” 

Dulcie addressed her letter, unlocked her door, and, like 
a good, obedient daughter, went into the drawing-room and 
began to practice her scales. 

Meantime, Mrs. Vernon gave strict injunctions to Morton 
that she was not to walk in Piccadilly or near the Row with 
Miss Dulcie. They might go toward the Marble Arch, Ox- 
ford Street, or the Regent’s Park. She even gave the maid 
a commission to execute at Marshall & Snelgrove’s en 
route. And, whilst this astute lady made her plans and 
laid her parallels, she was innocent of the remotest sus- 
picion that her guileless young daughter was similarly em- 
ployed. 

Morton was a comely and comfortable- looking woman of 
five-and-forty, of a romantic turn, and with a very un 
(yenly-balanced mind. All her spare time and a good deal 
of time that she ought not to have spared was devoted to 
novel-reading, and many a time her eyes were red from 
crying over the woes of lovers. She had the leaning to- 
ward intrigue that is the natural bent of abigails, and it 
would have been impossible to find a more imprudent or ill 
advised counselor for a young girl who had not a very 
sound head. She belonged to that class of people who com- 
mit the most serious mischief in the world— those who 
“ don’t mean any harm.” But she was also of a wavering 
and irresolute nature, and, though she might be tempted 
into danger by sentiment, she would not, it is to be feared, 
have scrupled to scramble out again, leaving her accom- 
plices in the lurch. 


CHAPTER II. 

Morton had attended Dulcie on her visit to Mrs. Faw 
cett, and knew, therefore, something about Mr. Trevor and 
her young lady’s predilection for him. He had spoken very 
pleasantly to her on one or two occasions when they had 


ONCK AGAIN. 


9 


met on the staircase, and civil words from good-looking 
young men always produced their full effect on her sympa- 
thetic nature. Dulcie had, therefore, no need of prelimi- 
nary statement or explanation ; so, the moment they issued 
from the portals of the house, she broke the ice. 

“Morton, what a shame of you to take my letter to 
mamma this morning!” 

“Lor, miss,” expostulated Morton, “ what was I to do? 
Your ma told me to bring her all the letters ; and how was 
I to know anything about it ; or that you hadn’t asked her 
to look at yours, as she is earlier than you?” 

“You might have been sharp enough to guess,” said 
Dulcie, not yet propitiated. 

“Well, miss, but you’.ve never had a letter from a gen- 
tleman in your life before,” protested Morton. 

“ All the more reason I should have it brought me when 
it did come,” retorted Dulcie. “ I call it most unkind and 
unfair of mamma, and I don’t see what right she has to 
open my letters. You remember that nice Mr. Trevor at 
Lowlands, Morton ? ” 

“Yes, miss.” 

“Well, he called yesterday, and mamma was very stiff 
and formal with him, and, as ill luck would have it, no 
one else came in, and I could not get a word alone with 
him. So then he went off to his club and wrote to me.” 

“Lor’ I” said Morton, again making use of her favorite 
ejaculation. “And your ma opened it?” . 

‘ ‘ Of course there was nothing in it that mamma might 
not see,” observed Dulcie. “He was much too clever for 
that. He first made an excuse about sending me a song,^ 
and asked whether he might not go to a play with us, or 
if we did not walk in the Eow. Mamma made me write 

the most horrid letter in answer, but Swear, Morton, 

you won’t tell if I tell you something?” 

Morton’s eyes gleamed with interest and curiosity. 

“ I won’t tell,” she answered, promptly. 

Dulcie drew the letter from her pocket. 

“ I have written him another,” she said, triumphantly. 

They were close to a pillar-box, and she hurried a step 
forward and popped it in. Morton gasped. She had 
never suspected her young lady to be capable of such 
temerity. 

“ Oh, dear! what would your ma say, if she knew?” 

“But she won’t know, unless you tell her,” replied 
Dulcie; “and you couldn’t be such a wretch as that. 
And, what is more, you are to do something very impor- 
tant indeed for us. ’ ’ 

“ I am?” said Morton, flattered. 

Dulcie sank her voice to a whisper. 


10 


ONCE AGAIN 


“He is going to write to me and direct the letters to 
yon.” 

Morton looked rather overwhelmed for a moment. But 
she soon made up her mind to play nurse to this Romeo 
and Juliet, and took the utmost interest in the little drama 
she was to assist at. . 

“You see, he will be going away in a month or two,” 
said Dulcie, judiciously suppressing any mention of serious 
intentions, “to India.” 

“Poor young gentleman!” remarked Morton, pathetic- 
ally. “Very likely he’ll never come back, or, if he does, 
he’ll be as yaller as a guinea.” 

In the evening, as Dulcie sat reading her novel, and 
Mrs. Vernon gently dozed, the. postman’s thunder was 
heard, and an intuition made Dulcie’ s breast palpitate at 
the thought that something very precious had found its 
way into the house through the slit in the door. 

She dared not go in quest of it, but remained on tenter- 
hooks whilst the butler brought up a couple of letters for 
her mother, and departed again. Two or tlit*ee minutes 
elapsed, then the door opened softly to admit Morton with 
a suspiciously demure countenance. She came up to Dul 
cie, and, under pretext of not disturbing Mrs. Vernon, 
Avhispered : 

“I came to ask you, miss, where you would like the 
bows put on that lace skirt.” And then she gave a signifi- 
cant little nod and pointed to her pocket. 

“I will come and show you,’’ replied Dulcie, rising 
promptly ; and the conspirators went out together. 

“Oh, you dear, good Morton!” cried Dulcie, in a sup- 
pressed whisper, as the maid handed her a substantial let- 
ter addressed to Mrs. Morton. 

“I’ve lighted your candles,” said the maid, and pro 
ceeded down-stairs to resume her supper, without any 
further allusion to dress or bows. 

And Dulcie, locking herself in her room, read her first 
love-letter with an ecstasy which I need not perhaps pause 
to describe. Suffice it to say that the missive was not 
original, and that the word “ darling ” did not recur more 
than twelve times. 

No uneasy prescience of evil, no misgiving of any sort 
or kind, visited Mrs. Vernon as she dozed delightfully in 
her luxurious chair. Could she but have guessed that a 
few yards above her head. her lovely daughter’s breast was 
palpitating over the impassioned sentences of her young 
adorer, or shall we say, as mamma would have said, “ the 
idiotic rhodomontade of a penniless young fool?” 

Noel expressed his intention of wearing out the pave- 
ment (or the soles of his boots) in Portland Place awaiting 


ONCE AGAIN. 


11 


his beloved. He had always hitherto thought it a singu- 
larly dull street, but now, henceforth and forever, it would 
be the most ‘heavenly spot on earth, etc., etc. Strange, 
Dulcie reflected, how les beaux esprits se rencontrent. 
She, too, had always thought Portland Place so dull ; but 
now ! ! ! 

As in this world there is always an alloy to bliss, Dulcie, 
her first raptures over, began to be tormented by fears 
about the weather. The climate of our dear old England 
is not reliable, especially in the month of November. Sup- 
pose it should rain in torrents the next morning, or that 
the new-found Eldorado, Portland Place, should be envel 
oped in a yellow fog. Weather would not keep Dulcie 
from her lover, but it might deter her mother from giving 
consent to the accustomed morning walk. Still, there was 
the letter, which in itself was sufficient aliment for love to 
feed on for at least a week, and, whenever the weather did 
give her a chance, Noel would of a certainty be found at 
their trysting-place : had he not sworn it? 

With light heart and step as though she trod on air, Dul- 
cie returned to the drawing-room — naughty Dulcie! — look- 
ing as innocent as Miss Puss who has had a sureptitious lap 
at the cream- jug. 

Mrs. Vernon was awake by this time, and engaged in 
reading “ What the World says.” 

“By the way,” she remarked, presently, looking up, 
“did not I hear you and Morton talking about your dress? 
What have you decided?” 

Dulcie turned aside to blush. The first steps along the 
path of deceit are not smooth to the novice. She hesitated 
and stammered a little, and was terrified lest her mother 
should remark her confusion. 

“It — it is not quite— quite settled,” she replied. “We 
think we shall be able to judge better by daylight.” 

Mrs. Vernon, having just arrived at a paragraph that in- 
terested her, did not remark Dulcie' s embarrassment. 
After a considerable pause, she asked another question. 

“ Did the song come, after aU?” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

“ And you sent off the note?” 

“Yes, 'mamma.” 

“ What is the song?” 

Dulcie hesitated. 

“ ‘ Golden Love,' ” she said, reluctantly. 

“ But you have it 1 Let me look 1” 

Dulcie brought it. 

“And set for a contralto!” remarked Mrs. Vernon. 

But she put it down without further comment. Of 
course she had known all along that it was only a ruse on 


n ONCE AGAIN. 

the young man’s part. But he must be rather a silly young 
man. 

After all, the fates were propitious. The following morn- 
ing was bright, and even sunshiny as sunshine goes in 
London in November. Full of glee, Dulcie set forth, ac- 
companied by Morton, on whom something of her own ex- 
citement was reflected. 

“ If your mamma was to find it out !” she said, half way 
up Bond Street, in rather a Cassandra-like voice; but 
Dulcie pooh-poohed the idea in a light-hearted way. 

In Cavendish Square the impatient Romeo was pacing. 
It was a sight to see how those two comely young coun- 
tenances were transfigured and glorified as they simulta- 
neously caught sight of each other. The romantic Morton 
heaved a sigh which halted between sympathy and envy. 
She loitered a little behind; but Dulcie had sufficient sense 
of the proprieties to know what a bad effect this would 
have should they by any unlucky chance be seen, and sum- 
moned her attendant promptly to her side. The first few 
moments of natural gene over, the maid was of no more 
account as an auditor to Noel and Dulcie than the wall to 
Py ramus and Thisbe, only that, mercifully, they were both 
on the right side of her. 

And Morton, pretending to look the other way, was 
listening with the deepest interest, and heard every word 
that passed. Indeed, there was nothing which any one ex- 
cept a mamma with ambitious views for her daughter 
might not have heard; for Dulcie was a modest, well 
brought up young lady, and Noel was animated by the 
most honest if ardent love, and looked up to his idol with 
the reverence that a nice-minded young fellow always en- 
tertains for the girl he loves — as long as she allows him. 

Every day for a whole week Phoebus smiled his wintery, 
far-off smile on this happy pair: their hearts supplied the 
warmth he lacked. Then for three days he hid himself, 
and the town was veiled in a hideous black fog, and one 
side of Portland Place could not see the other side, and Mrs. 
Vernon would not hear of Dulcie going out. 

Morton made a martyr of herself in a good cause, and 
caught a severe cold by going to meet Mr. Trevor in her 
young lady’s place, and Noel, generous like most impecu- 
nious youths, made her a present ill-proportioned to his 
means. 

It was at this juncture, when he had reached the highest 
point of love-madness, that a friend of his arrived in 
London en route for the Cape— -a friend not possessed of 
the highest principles or animated by very nice or delicate 
scruples. 

For three days Noel had not set eyes on his darling (by 


ONCE AGAIN, 


18 


the way, this delightful term of endearment is getting 
sadly hackneyed by frequent use in the ballads of the day). 
He was burning to talk about her, after the manner of his 
kind when in love, and he pounced on this “pal” as a 
drowning man would have pounced on a plank, and poured 
his love and woes, with joy unspeakable, into the ears 
which seemed to listen kindly. 

He was only interrupted by a few pertinent questions. 

“ Has the girl got any stuff?” was the first. 

Noel was shocked at the coarse brutality of the question. 
He was far too much in love not to think “ stuff ” a hin- 
derance rather than otherwise to the charms of his adored 
one. 

“I don’t know or care,” he replied. 

“ But has she?” persisted the other. 

Noel dared not offend his friend, and made answer: 

“ I suppose she will have. She is an only child, and her 
mother appears to be very well off.” 

“Eun away with her,” said the friend, tersely. 

Noel’s eyes brightened. 

‘ ' I wish to Heaven I could !” he exclaimed . * * But ” — re- 

lapsing into despondency— “ there’s no Gretna Green.” 

“There’s the registry office, which is a good deal 
handier.” 

Noel contemplated his friend with a mixture of awe and 
admiration. 

“ Nothing simpler. You’ve only got to swear that she 
is of age and has no parents, and to give notice a fort- 
night or so beforehand. ’ ’ 

“But could not one be had up for perjury?” gasped 
Noel. 

“The registrar won’t bother his head. And once it is 
done it can’t be undone, you know.” 

‘ ‘ But she looks so young. ” 

“She can put on a thick veil,” said Mephistopheles. 

Poor Faust, though his intentions w'ere strictly honor- 
able, felt as though he was being incited to the blackest of 
crimes. But the temptation was overwhelming. 

Dulcie to be his. Dulcie to go out to India with him. 
Oh, rapture! 

His friend was, as has been said, unscrupulous. He 
had a liking for Noel, and thought he was helping him to 
a good thing. Seeing the impression he had made, he con- 
tinued his persuasions as warmly as though he had some 
personal object to gain by Noel’s elopement. And Noel, 
after the first shock of horror, took very kindly to the 
idea; and though lying and deceit were extremely repug- 
nant to his honest young mind, he looked leniently on his 
tempter's argument that “ all is fair in love and war.” 


14 


ONCE AGAIN. 


The following morning a brisk wind arose and dispersed 
the fog, and, with a high- beating heart, Noel flew to the 
rendezvous, where Dulcie was even before him. 

Noel was divided between rapture and timidity, for he 
held Dulcie in that awe and reverence which a right- 
minded young m.an feels for a girl in whose purity and 
modesty he has a devout belief, and he trembled lest she 
should turn indignantly upon him when he br oached the 
daring seheme that his friend had suggested. Not that 
he was going to shelter himself behind that friend; it 
would not do to let Dulcie guess for a moment that he 
had discussed her with any living soul. Haltingly, tim- 
orously, he approached his subject, and presently, encour- 
aged by a gleam of intelligence in Dulcie’ s eyes and the 
smile on her pretty lips, he plunged boldly, fervently, 
ardently, into his appeal, and, with an eloquence of which 
he had not suspected himself capable, implored, urged, en- 
treated. 

The romance and daring of the idea commended them- 
selves to Dulcie. Having begun the downward course of 
deceiving her mother, she gathered daily fresh impetus in 
her descent, and was almost prepared to clear the remain- 
ing obstacles at a bound. 

Thougli she did not straightway consent, she lent an evi- 
dently willing ear to her lover’s suggestions, and promised 
to think over what he had said. When Noel parted from 
her, he seemed to tread on air ; in his imagination this 
priceless pearl was his already, and he bestirred himself to 
consider all the arrangements that it would be necessary 
for him to make in view of this ardently -desired union with 
his beloved. Naturally, the first thought which assailed 
him was the absolute necessity of ready money. He had 
only one hundred and fifty pounds a year besides his pay, 
and to forestall that would, he knew, be madness. His 
mother had left him a few diamonds and some plate. He 
had been fond of her, and it cost him a severe pang to 
think of parting with these things, which she had set great 
value on ; but it was his only alternative. 

It was rather fortunate for him that he took his friend. 
Captain Black, into confidence in this subject also. 

“ ITl see to it for you, if you like,” he said. “I'm a 
very good hand at a bargain, and I expect you are a pre- 
cious bad one, and these jewelers are the most confounded 
thieves. ’ ’ 

Noel gratefully accepted this offer of service, got the 
plate-chest and jewel-box from his banker’s, and intrusted 
them to his friend. He was exceedingly pleased when 
Black the same evening presented him with bank-notes 
to the amount of two hundred and five pounds. True, 


ONCE AGAIN. 


15 


the things had probably cost three times that amount, 
but, as every one knows who has the smallest experience 
on the subject, buying is one thing and selling another. 
And it is perfectly certain that had Noel gone bargaining 
himself the result would have been far less satisfactory. 
He immediately proceeded to expend the odd fiver in a 
present to his friend, and next day handed over the greater 
portion of the remaining two hundred to his banker’s safe 
keeping. Then he went joyously to the tryst with his 
beloved. They walked to the inner circle of the Regent’s 
Park, and, as no one else was visible, Morton fell back 
several paces. 

“My darling,” said Noel, with eyes and voice full of 
feeling, ‘ ‘ I hope you will never regret trusting your dear 
self to me. You know that I am a poor man. The one 
thought which troubles me is that you may miss the com- 
forts and luxury to which you have been accustomed. 
You know I should not ‘consider the whole world good 
enough for you, my angel,” cried the ardent lover; “it is 
an awful blow to me to think you will have to give up so 
much for my sake. ’ ’ 

But Dulcie, with a bright smile, reassured him. 

“Indeed,” she pleaded, prettily, “I do not care at all 
about money. Mamma has talked and insisted so much 
upon it that I hate the very idea of marrying a rich man. 
I am not worldly, as she is, and all the people I have been 
introduced to who were good matches nave been horrid, 
stupid, uninteresting creatures.” 

“I am afraid,” said Noel, with a pang, “ that it will be 
a dreadful blow to your poor mother losing you. ” 

“Yes, I dare say she won’t like it,” assented Dulcie, 
rather unfeelingly. “ But, if she only studies her own am - 
bition and not my happiness, I don’t see why I should con- 
sider her so much. ’ ’ 

This argument comforted Noel. 

After one or two more interviews, Dulcie consented to 
the marriage at the registry office. Captain Black was 
arch- conspirator, aider, and abettor. 

“ The old woman will be in a deuce of a rage at first, of 
course,” he said, consolingly, “but if she’s clever she’ll 
probably end by saying, ‘Bless you, my children!’ and 
making the best of it. After that she will no doubt ‘ fork 
out.’ which is the great point.” 

If it had not been for this Mephistopheles always at hand, 
I am not sure that Noel would have carried the matter 
through to the end, so stoutly did his conscience combat 
the proceeding. But Black argued and advised as though 
he had some personal object to gain by the marriage. His 
motive, however, was simply that of a self-willed and reso 


16 


ONCE AGAIN 


lute person who, when he takes up a matter and gives ad- 
vice, feels his amom^ propre concerned in its being acted 
upon. 

Dulcie, like many placid and amiable people without 
much character, was extremely tenacious and obstinate. 
She had taken it into her head to feel aggrieved and re- 
sentful against her mother. No pang of remorse visited 
her on the subject of the grief she was about to bring on 
Mrs. Vernon; she told herself that it was entirely her 
mother’s fault for not allowing her to see and love the man 
of her choice. She would not be sacrificed to any one’s am- 
bition. 

Morton was the one to be fiurried and anxious. She fore- 
saw terrible consequences for herself ; she would no doubt 
be discharged without a character when the denouement 
occurred, and her complicity with it was discovered. Still, 
she could not see any possible way out of it, having gone so 
far. 


CHAPTER III. 

The wedding-day arrived. Things seldom happen in the 
manner which we anticipate, and Dulcie, who, like most 
young maidens, had occasionally thought of herself as the 
heroine of such a ceremonial, had pictured the event as 
taking place at St. George’s with some pomp, a bevy of 
bridemaids and troops of wedding guests. But she felt no 
regret on the morning of her marriage-day at the absence 
of these conventional circumstances ; indeed, the fiavor lent 
by strategy and secrecy was more agreeably stimulating 
and exciting than mere commonplace preparations would 
have been. 

Having thoroughly assured herself by appeal to Noel 
that marriage in a registry office was as legal and binding 
as though it were performed in Westminster Abbey by an 
archbishop, she troubled herself no more about the mat- 
ter, and, indeed, congratulated herself that there was no 
fuss and trouble to be gone through. Perhaps a shadow 
of regret stole into her heart at being compelled to forego 
the ti'ousseau-hnjin^, and it occurred to her that it was 
hardly fair she should be done out of her wedding- presents, 
of which many were owing to her in return for her own 
and her mother’s gifts on similar occasions ; but she re- 
flected that people who had consciences could just as well 
send their contributions after the event as before. 

No obstacle intervened to prevent her being at the place 
of rendezvous, where Noel, as eager and gallant a young 
bridegroom as wintery sun ever shone upon, received her 
in a seventh heaven of bliss. The short, unimpressive 


ONCE AGAIN. 1? 

c^reinony was gone through, and, hey presto! Miss Dulcie 
Vernon was Mrs. Noel Trevor. 

They had thought it expedient to put the sea between 
themselves and Mrs. Vernon for a few days, and immedi- 
ately stepped into a hansom and ordered the man to drive 
to Noel’s rooms to pick up his luggage. Morton had the 
night before taken a small trunk containing some portion 
of her young lady’s wardrobe to the railway-station, to be 
left till called for. Everything seemed to favor the run- 
away couple. Noel wildly, Dulcie placidly, happy, were 
beaming smiles upon each other, when, lo ! Nemesis over- 
took them. 

They were turning a corner rather smartly, when down 
went "the horse on the greasy wood pavement, and both 
were flung forward; but Noel, throwing his arm round 
Dulcie, soon put her back in her place, tenderly reassuring 
her. Meantime, the horse made two violent efforts to re- 
cover himself, and, having gained his feet, was trotting 
off again, when Noel, hearing an exclamation from the 
driver, looked up. 

“Good God!” he cried, “he has slipped his bridle!” and 
on the impulse of the moment, thinking only of Dulcie’ s 
safety, he made a dash out of the cab to get to the ani- 
mal’s head. His heel caught the edge of the platform, and 
he was dashed violently on the pavement. The horse 
quickened his pace, the driver shouted for some one to 
stop him. Dulcie saw two or three men run forward, felt 
a sudden collision against the wheel of another vehicle, 
was again flung forward, and then she remembered nothing 
more. 

When she came to her senses, she found herself in a 
rather dingy parlor, with two strange men standing over 
her. Her first emotion was a dull surprise ; then, as some 
recollection of the events of the morning stole across her, 
she was seized with terror. 

“ Where am I? What has happened?” she asked of the 
elder of the two men, a kindly, rather pompous-looking in- 
dividual. 

“You are in good hands, ma’am,” he replied, reassur- 
ingly. 

It was the first time Dulcie had ever been addressed as 
“ma’am.” The color mounted to her cheek, and she won- 
dered how this man could possibly know she was married. 
For the moment she did not remark that her gloves had 
been removed, letting the wedding-ring tell its tale. 

“Your hansom was stopped just in front here— quite 
providential, one may say. ’ ’ 

“ And where ?’’ gasped Dulcie, “where ?” 


20 


ONCE AGAIN. 


be an esclandre, a thing that Mrs. Vernon dreaded even 
more than smallpox. So, finding nothing was to be got out 
of her maid, she left her, and returned to her daughter, 
who had at once recommenced the sobs and cries which she 
had suspended during her mother’s absence. 

Mrs. Vernon changed her tactics. She asked no more 
questions, but, sitting down beside the couch, bathed Dul- 
cie’s forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and endeavored to pos- 
sess her soul in patience. The girl would have to be coaxed, 
that was evident; though her mamma would have infi- 
nitely preferred to box her ears and assail her with bitter 
words. 

It was past luncheon-time, and the butler came in, and 
with a mysterious and sympathetic air— he had lived some 
time in the family — asked whether it should not be served. 

Mrs. Vernon assented. 

“ Do not let James come in,” she said. 

James was the footman. 

In kind tones, Dulcie’s mother begged her to eat, or at 
all events to drink some wine ; but Dulcie obstinately shook 
her head and continued, like Hezekiah, to turn her face to 
the wall. Her anxiety about Noel increased every moment ; 
she could not forget seeing him hurled to the "ground ; a 
terror seized her that he was dead. How was she to find 
out? She longed to see Morton and implore her to run to 
the hospital for news. 

‘ ‘ I will go up-stairs, ’ ’ she said, presently, rising slowly 
from the sofa. 

Mrs. Vernon was really shocked to see how white and ill 
she looked. 

“I will go with you, my dear,” she said, putting her 
daughter’s hand through her arm. 

When they reached Dulcie’s room, the girl asked that 
Morton might be sent to her. 

Mrs. Vernon thought best to comply with this request, 
and retired to her own room, which adjoined her daugh- 
ter’s. Nothing could be more repugnant to this lady’s 
proud nature than eavesdropping; but on this occasion, 
overpowered by anxiety, she crept near the door that 
communicated between the two rooms and listened intently, 
in the hope of getting some clew from the conversation of 
her daughter and Morton. It was soon evident from their 
smothered voices that they had taken this contingency into 
consideration ; only a word here and there was audible ; it 
was by the tone of their voices alone that the distracted 
mother could gain any hint as to what was passing. Mor- 
ton’s betrayed fear, anxiety, curiosity: Dulcie’s despair; 
her sobs had begun again. 

Mrs. Vernon was racked with apprehension; she must 


ONCE AGAIN 


21 


find out what had happened ; and she presently set herself 
to think, with what calmness she might, over the best 
means of wresting this dreadful secret from one of the pair. 
She saw now that she had made a mistake in frightening 
Morton; she must try gentler tactics. 

Descending to her boudoir, she rang and desired that her 
maid might be sent to her. She commanded her face and 
voice with a supreme effort, and when Morton came in 
looking frightened though obstinate, she was quite taken 
aback by the gentleness of her lady’s voice and manner. 

“ Morton,” began Mrs. Vernon, “I am very much dis- 
tressed to see Miss Dulcie in this agitated state. Of course, 
I am aware that you are to a certain extent in her confi- 
dence, and T must put it to your good feeling whether it is 
right that I, her mother, should be kept in suspense and in 
ignorance of what has happened to her.” 

Morton subsided into helpless tears ; this tone of appeal 
from her haughty lady affected her visibly. 

Mrs. Vernon saw her advantage, and pressed it. 

“You have been with me for some years now,” she con- 
tinued, more gently still. “You know how entirelv de- 
voted I am to Miss Dulcie, and you surely cannot be so 
heartless as to let me go on suffering this dreadful anxiety 
about her. What is all this mystery?” 

Morton sobbed. She was emotional; every word Mrs. 
Vernon uttered pierced her like a stab. She was begin- 
ning to be conscious of the terrible enormity she had com- 
mitted, especially now that this affair, which she had 
thought so romantic, had culminated in such a terrible 
catastrophe. Her superstitious mind saw a “ judgment ” 
in it. With the proneness of her order to look at the 
darkest side, she felt sure the poor young gentleman was 
killed. 

Dulcie had imploued her to go to the hospital and make 
inquiries, but she was afraid to do this. Or the two dread- 
ful alternatives, she almost preferred to confess her par- 
ticipation in Dulcie’s guilt to Dulcie’s mother than to have 
the terrible secret, with perhaps its dreadful consequences, 
on her mind. At worst by confessing she could lose her 
place, and she was shrewd enough to see that Mrs. Ver- 
non could not refuse to give her a character without be- 
traying matters which she would not care to have dis- 
closed. 

So, amidst many tears and sighs and groans, she related 
the story in outline, ending with the death (of which she 
was quite certain) of the poor young gentleman. Mrs. Ver- 
non was absolutely paralyzed by the recital. She felt as 
though her senses had been stunned by a violent blow. 
Dulcie —her good, obedient daughter, without, as she had 


22 


ONCE AGAIN. 


imagined, any will of her own— Dulcie to have taken a step 
of which scarcely one girl in a thousand would have been 
capable ! She had never protested her love, never rebelled 
for one moment against her mother’s fiat that she was not 
to see Noel any more, but had simply walked out of the 
house and married him ! 

Repressing, with an almost superhuman effort, her 
wrath against Morton, she said, in an unnaturally quiet 
voice : 

‘ ‘ You had better go back to Miss Dulcie, and remain 
with her. I will have inquiries made about — at the hos- 
pital. I suppose it is unnecessary to caution you against 
allowing a word of this to be known in the house. If — if 
Mr. Trevor is killed, perhaps nothing ever need be known.” 

Morton retired, hardly able to believe that no worse 
thing had befallen her. 

Mrs. Vernon, left alone, leaned back in her chair, closed 
her eyes, and gave herself over to meditation. All her 
fondest hopes destroyed — her ambition crushed! And 
what dreadful disgrace might not come upon her 1 If this 
man died, there would probably be an inquest. The whole 
thing would be published in the papers. Her daughter’s 
name would be dragged through the mire. Suddenly it 
occurred to her that the marriage might not be legal, after 
all. Dulcie was a ward in chancery. She resolved to go at 
once to her lawyer, who was an old and trusted friend and 
a bachelor. Hastily she put on her bonnet. The brougham, 
which she had ordered for three o’clock, must have been at 
the door some time. 

Mr. Benson, her solicitor, had chambers within ten min- 
utes’ drive of Grosvenor Street. She was fortunate enou^ 
to find him at home and alone, and was ushered immedi- 
ately into his presence. 

“Mr. Benson,” she said, the instant the door closed upon 
the clerk, “ I am in^'dreadful trouble.” 

Mr. Benson had never seen his handsome, distinguished 
client so agitated. He entertained a great regard for her 
— she was such a sensible woman, with such an excellent 
head, such sound judgment. She never took up his time 
when he was busy with chattering about irrelevant matter, 
as most ladies are in the habit of doing, but always kept to 
the point— knew what she wanted, and said it in a few 
words. In society she was quite different; extremely 
agreeable and conversational— gave excellent dinners and 
undeniable wine. She was one of Mr. Benson’s favorite 
clients, and he was sincerely concerned to see her in trouble, 
although in his professional capacity he was not given to 
being demonstrative. 

“ I am very sorry to hear it,” he said, handing her to a 


ONCE AGAIN, ‘38 

rrhair— “ very sorry, indeed/’ Then, seating himself, he 
prepared to listen. 

Mrs. Vernon’s habitual self-control wavered; her voice 
trembled ; there were even tears in her eyes, so terrible and 
crushing was the blow that had fallen upon her. During 
the recital, which was of an astounding nature to Mr. Ben- 
son, he was compelled now and then to ejaculate, “Dear 
me! dear me!” as a relief to his feelings. He had known 
Dulcie from a child — thought of her as a child still—a good, 
obedient, well-brought-up, pretty child, thoroughly under 
her mother’s control, and without a will of her own. He 
olfered up a little mental thanksgiving that he had neither 
wife nor daughter to bring misfortune and anxiety upon 
him. 

Mrs. Vernon, having given a rapid outline of her dread- 
ful case, attacked the all-absorbing point of interest. 

“Surely,” she cried, “this marriage cannot be legal. 
Dulcie, being a ward in chancery, cannot be married with- 
out the lord chancellor’s permission. And she is not of 
age. The man must have told all sorts of deliberate false- 
hoods to get the registrar to marry them.” 

Mr. Benson looked thoughtful and gloomy. 

“Surely,” cried Mrs. Vernon, with increased agitation, 

“ I have heard of a man being imprisoned for marrying a 
ward in chancery!” 

“I am afraid,” remarked Mr. Benson, despondingly, 

“ that once the ceremony has been performed it cannot be 
annulled. You see, the responsibility of the court of chan- 
cery regards the property, not the person, of its wards. 

I believe all the court can do- under the circumstances is to 
summon the husband to appear before it, and to insist 
upon the property being settled in a manner which it ap- 
proves.” 

“But if,” cried poor Mrs. Vernon, nearly distracted—;' 
“ if the man has told all sorts of lies to the registrar !” 

“On that point I am not absolutely certain, but I will 
make inquiries at once. You say, however, that the young 
man has sustained serious, perhaps mortal, injuries. In 
that case ’ ’ 

Mr. Benson paused. 

Mrs. Vernon was afraid to speak her thoughts aloud. 

“ It is important that inquiry should be made as to his 
state,” suggested Mr. Benson. 

“Yes,” she assented, “but how? 1 cannot send. I am 
only too anxious, if possible, to avoid being in any way 
brought into this dreadful business. He may ” (dropping 
her voice) “ die without recovering consciousness.” 

“But he has friends, relatives, I suppose? Do you not 


22 


ONCE AGAIN, 


imagined, any will of her own— Dulcie to have taken a step 
of which scarcely one girl in a thousand would have been 
capable ! She had never protested her love, never rebelled 
for one moment against her mother’s fiat that she was not 
to see Noel any more, but had simply walked out of the 
house and married him ! 

Repressing, with an almost superhuman effort, her 
wrath against Morton, she said, in an unnaturally quiet 
voice : 

“You had better go back to Miss Dulcie, and remain 
with her. I will have inquiries made about — at the hos- 
pital. I suppose it is unnecessary to caution you against 
allowing a word of this to be known in the house. If— if 
Mr. Trevor is killed, perhaps nothing ever need be known.” 

Morton retired, hardly able to believe that no worse 
thing had befallen her. 

Mrs. Vernon, left alone, leaned back in her chair, closed 
her eyes, and gave herself over to meditation. All her 
fondest hopes destroyed— her ambition crushed! And 
what dreadful disgrace might not come upon her 1 If this 
man died, there would probably be an inquest. The whole 
thing would be published in the papers. Her daughter’s 
name would be dragged through the mire. Suddenly it 
occurred to her that the marriage might not be legal, after 
all. Dulcie was a ward in chancery. She resolved to go at 
once to her lawyer, who was an old and trusted friend and 
a bachelor. Hastily she put on her bonnet. The brougham, 
which she had ordered for three o’clock, must have been at 
the door some time. 

Mr. Benson, her solicitor, had chambers within ten min- 
utes’ drive of Grosvenor Street. She was fortunate enough 
to find him at home and alone, and was ushered immedi- 
ately into his presence. 

“Mr. Benson,” she said, the instant the door closed upon 
the clerk, “ I am in^dreadful trouble.” 

Mr. Benson had never seen his handsome, distinguished 
client so agitated. He entertained a great regard for her 
— she was such a sensible woman, with such an excellent 
head, such sound judgment. She never took up his time 
when he was busy with chattering about irrelevant matter, 
as most ladies are in the habit of doing, but always kept to 
the point— knew what she wanted, and said it in a few 
words. In society she was quite different; extremely 
agreeable and conversational— gave excellent dinners and 
undeniable wine. She was one of Mr. Benson’s favorite 
clients, and he was sincerely concerned to see her in trouble, 
although in his professional capacity he was not given to 
being demonstrative. 

“ I am very sorry to hear it,” he said, handing her to a 


ONCE AGAIN. 

chair— “ very sorry, indeed." Then, seating himself, he 
prepared to listen. 

Mrs. Vernon’s habitual self-control wavered; her voice 
trembled ; there were even tears in her eyes, so terrible and 
crushing was the blow that had fallen upon her. During 
the recital, which was of an astounding nature to Mr. Ben- 
son, he was compelled now and then to ejaculate, “Dear 
me! dear me!” as a relief to his feelings. He had known 
Dulcie from a child — thought of her as a child still— a good, 
obedient, well-brought-up, pretty child, thoroughly under 
her mother’s control, and without a will of her own. He 
offered up a little mental thanksgiving that he had neither 
wife nor daughter to bring misfortune and anxiety upon 
him. 

Mrs. Vernon, having given a rapid outline of her dread- 
ful case, attacked the all-absorbing point of interest. 

“Surely,” she cried, “this marriage cannot be legal. 
Dulcie, being a ward in chancery, cannot be married with- 
out the lord chancellor’s permission. And she is not of 
age. The man must have told all sorts of deliberate false- 
hoods to get the registrar to marry them.” 

Mr. Benson looked thoughtful and gloomy. 

“Surely,” cried Mrs. Vernon, with increased agitation, 

‘ ‘ I have heard of a man being imprisoned for marrying a 
ward in chancery!” 

“I am afraid,” remarked Mr. Benson, despondingly, 

“ that once the ceremony has been performed it cannot be 
annulled. You see, the responsibility of the court of chan- 
cery regards the property, not the person, of its wards. 

I believe all the court can do under the circumstances is to 
summon the husband to appear before it, and to insist 
upon the property being settled in a manner which it ap- 
proves.” 

“But if,” cried poor Mrs. Vernon, nearly distracted — / 
“ if the man has told all sorts of lies to the registrar!” 

“On that point I am not absolutely certain, but I will 
make inquiries at once. You say, however, that the young 
man has sustained serious, perhaps mortal, injuries. In 
that case ” 

Mr. Benson paused. 

Mrs. Vernon was afraid to speak her thoughts aloud. 

“ It is important that inquiry should be made as to his 
state,” suggested Mr. Benson. 

“Yes,” she assented, “but how? J cannot send. I am 
only too anxious, if possible, to avoid being in any way 
brought into this dreadful business. He may ” (dropping 
her voice) “ die without recovering consciousness.” 

“But he has friends, relatives, I suppose? Do you not 


ONCE AGAIN, 


U 


think he will have taken some one into his confidence? 
Who were the witnesses?” 

My maid and the registrar’s clerk, I believe. ” 

“Your maid! Dear me I dear me? that respectable per- 
son I have seen with you ! I fear there are no longer any 
trustworthy servants left.” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Vernon, with pardonable bit- 
terness. 

“I think,” pursued Mr. Benson, after a lengthy pause, 
‘ ‘ the best way will be for me to call at the hospital my- 
self and inquire after the young man. I shall simply 
allow them to imagine that I was a by-stander at the 
time of the accident, and call to make inquiries out of 
sympathy.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” ciaed Mrs. Vernon, eagerly. 
“ And you will let me know?” 

“I will come round to your house afterward, as though 
for a friendly call.” 

Mrs. Vernon drove away with the load at her heart as 
heavy as when she arrived. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Some two hours later, Mr. Benson was ushered into Mrs. 
Vernon’s boudoir. He had called at the hospital, had seen 
the house-surgeon, and learned that Mr. Trevor was still 
insensible, and that no opinion could be given at present 
whether he would recover or not. A note-book containing 
several bank-notes and cards with his name and the ad- 
dress of a military club had been found upon him. The 
hall-porter of the club had been communicated with, and 
three or four gentlemen had been down to ask after Mr. 
Trevor. The cabman stated that he took up the gentleman 
and a lady near the top of Berkeley Square, and was driv- 
ing to Duke Street when the collision occurred. The lady, 
Mr. Benson was informed, had not been heard of ; it was 
believed that she had been assisted into a shop. If she 
was a friend or relative, it was supposed she would have 
sent to make inquiries ; but Mr. Benson’s interlocutor inti- 
mated, with a significant smile, that it was improbable she 
would be heard of any more. 

“So much the better!” groaned Mrs. Vernon. “Let 
them think anything — anything rather than the dreadful 
truth! I have determined,” she went on, “to leave Eng- 
land for the present. If this frightful affair should come 
out, I shall never hold up my head again.” 

“But, my dear lady,” replied Mr. Benson, shaking his 
head, “it is impossible to conjecture what may happen, 
and I think you should certainly be on the spot. If— 


ONCE AGAIN 


25 


if ” — hesitating — Mr. Trevor should recover, and the 
marriage is a legal one, there is no question that ” 

“If, ’^repeated Mrs. Vernon, with energy, “such a mis- 
fortune should happen, I will at all events have things 
done decently and in order. I shall insist on a formal en- 
gagement, and on the marriage taking place in church. 
And then,” with a burst of anger she found it impossible to 
restrain, “ they may go where they please, and I shall wash 
my hands of them forever. ’ ’ 

Mr. Benson did not expostulate; he thought his client’s 
irritation was very natural indeed under the circum- 
stances. 

“ Well, well, we must hope for the best I” he remarked, 
soothingly; but whether the best meant Noel’s death, he 
scarcely knew himself. 

“To-morrow morning I will go to the registry office, 
and see whether the proper formalities were gone through, 
and if due notice was given; if not,, we may be able to 
question the legality of the marriage. Probably the 
young man was in too great a hurry to ask for the cer- 
tificate, as it was certainly not found upon him. I will 
make every possible inquiry, and should strongly advise 
you to elicit as much information as possible from your 
daughter and the maid. I will also call again at St. 
George’s and make inquiry for the patient; or perhaps 
my better plan will be to ask at his club. You may rely 
upon my sending you th> earliest information on both 
points.” 

Then Mr. Benson took his leave. 

Mrs. Vernon had all the evening before her to reflect in. 
Dulcie remained in her room, with Morton in attendance. 
Mrs. Vernon felt the greatest repugnance to seeing her 
daughter, against whom she was deeply angered. She 
divined that all the obstinacy of Dulcie’s nature was 
aroused. She was conscious that the betrayal of her own 
feelings would be unwise, and yet it was impossible to treat 
the girl with any show of affection or sympathy. Of the 
latter, indeed, she did not feel a particle, and simply re- 
garded the accident as a judgment on an undutiful and 
headstrong child. The one vital point was whether the 
marriage was legal or not, and for that knowledge she 
would have to wait, at all events, until the morrow. Angry 
as she was with Morton, much as she would have liked to 
punish her, she was aware that she was more likely to 
learn what she wanted from her than from Dulcie, "and 
thought it better to make her the medium of communica 
tion between herself and her daughter. And, besides, 
knowing how people of her class are prone to exaggerate, 
and thinking exaggeration might be useful in this case, 


‘^6 


ONCE AGAIN 


she saw the expediency of letting a good deal of what she 
had to say to Dulcie filter through the maid. 

When Morton came to assist her in dressing, she re- 
marked, in a quiet but very impressive voice : 

‘ ‘ I am not at present going to say anything about the 
manner in which you have betrayed my confidence. You 
have helped Miss Dulcie into a very serious predicament, 
the consequences of which it is impossible to foresee.” 

Morton’s tears began to fall. 

“You may,” continued Mrs. Vernon, severely, “have 
been the means of ruining her whole life.” (The tears 
began to rain.) “She is a young girl quite ignorant of the 
world. Without you she could never have carried out 
this wild and foolish project.” 

Here Morton required the support of the wardrobe, 
whilst she rubbed her eyes and nose to a crimson hue. 

“ The accident,” pursued Mrs. Vernon, solemnly, “ seems 
nothing less than a judgment ; and it is more than likely 
this — young man will pay the penalty of his life for his 
wickedness.” 

Sobs. 

“He is still unconscious; he maj^ not live the night 
through. In any case, the ceremony performed to-day is 
illegal, as he made false representations. As Miss Dulcie 
is a ward in chancery, the consent of the court is required 
before she can marry. Any one marrying a ward in chan- 
cery without the lord chancellor’s consent is liable to im- 
prisonment. You can tell Miss Dulcie all this, and what 
a very narrow escape she has had. I think it better not 
to see her again myself to-night. If,” as Morton still 
sobbed hysterically, ‘ ‘ you wish to atone for the dreadful 
injury you have already done both to her and to me, you 
will do all you can to prevent any suspicion of what has 
occurred getting abroad. Above all, beware of going to 
the hospital or helping to communicate with Mr. Trevor 
should he recover, which is more than doubtful, or you 
may be had up before the lord chancellor for aiding a 
conspiracy, and may find yourself in a very serious posi- 
tion.” 

This last suggestion nearly terrified Morton into a fit, as 
it was intended to do. 

She went back to Dulcie, and poured such a terrible 
story into her ears that the girl, who was a thorough 
coward, felt her grief for Noel almost swallowed up by her 
fears for herself, and no longer tried to prevail on Morton 
to go to the hospital as she had previously done. Indeed, 
Morton affirmed her belief that poor Mr. Trevor was a 
corpse already, and wrung her hands, bewailing her own 
weakness and wickedness in ever having allowed herself 


OyCE AGAIiY, 


27 


to be persuaded to assist in such a course of deceit and 
treachery. 

‘‘ Why didn’t you tell me, Miss Dulcie,” she said (in the 
afternoon she had called her “ma’am,” but now that she 
no longer regarded the marriage as valid, she returned to 
her usLial mode of address) — “ why didn’t you tell piie that 
you were a ward in chancery, and that we might all be 
locked up in prison for this? i call it cruel of you— and me' 
who has my bread to earn, and could never get a place 
again once I’d been in jail!” 

“ I never knew it mattered,” stammered Dulcie. 

“But you knew you was not twenty-one, miss,” said 
Morton, ‘ ‘ and you should not have allowed Mr. Trevor to 
go telling a pack of lies about you. And, though I don’t 
like to think it of him, and he perhaps lying dead this 
minute, he may have known all the time it wasn’t lawful, 
and may have enticed you into it so that he might back 
out again if he wanted to. I am sure you ought to go on 
your knees and thank the Almighty for that acci<lent, or 
goodness knows what you might have come to! I’m sure 
the only wonder is your ma hasn’t put me and my boxes 
outside the door before this!” 

Dulcie was dumb with misery. To have lost the sym- 
pathy and co-operation of Morton was almost the severest 
blow of all. 

Mrs. Vernon would indeed have had reason to congrat- 
ulate herself on her diplomacy could she have witnessed 
the scene that was taking place overhead. She was ter- 
ribly perplexed and distressed; the most poignant fear 
of all was lest this disgraceful story should get abroad, 
and, in spite of Mr. Benson’s opinion, she resolved to quit 
the country for the time being, even if she were compelled 
to return to it. On the one. hand, she pictured the horrors 
of an inquest; on the other, Noel recovered, coming to 
claim his wife. Yes, the only thing for it was flight ; she 
would go down to Dover the following afternoon, and pro- 
ceed next day to Paris, leaving her address with Mr. Ben- 
son only. But lest he should dissuade her from her inten- 
tion, she determined not to communicate it to him until 
after it had become an accomplished fact. 

When Morton appeared to assist her in undressing, she 

E ut a few more questions to her. Had any one in the 
ouse the smallest suspicion of Miss Dulcie’ s meeting with 
Mr. Trevor? No, Morton declared eagerly that not a soul 
knew of his existence as far as she was aware. What ex- 
planation had been given of Miss Dulcie’ s condition on her 
return home in the morning? Morton replied that she had 
told them down-stairs that, having some important work 
to finishj she had left Miss Dulcie to do her shopping alone ; 




28 


ONCE AGAIN 


that her young lady haa got into a hansom to come home, 
that the horse had fallen down and she been thrown out, 
and that Mrs. Vernon was very angry at her having been 
about the streets alone. This was plausible enough, and 
Mrs. Vernon’s mind was relieved. 

“I intend, if possible,” she informed Morton, “to leave 
London to-morrow afternoon. You can be putting things 
together; but on no account tell Miss Dulcie to-night.” 

Morton obeyed. She was really relieved at the idea of 
going away, so frightened was she lest she should be 
summoned before the lord chancellor, whom she vaguely 
thought of as a terrible being. Had Dulcie shown a bold 
front, and been strong and determined, she might have 
retained her influence over Morton ; but in an emergency 
weakness despises weakness and is apt to turn to the 
strong, and Morton went over to the side of her mistress 
in the hope of securing her own safety. 

Dulcie had not the smallest* anchor of hope to cling to. 
Noel was lost to her; worse thought still, Noel had be- 
trayed her. If he were killed, she had made up her mind 
in the afternoon to wear widow’s weeds for him; but now, 
if she was not his lawful wife, where should she hide her 
head from this disgrace should the story of it get about? 
She was in a truly pitiable state of mind — a wofully pliant 
condition, ready to be molded as her mother chose if she 
would only screen and defend her. 

Dulcie, having little common sense, being utterly igno- 
rant of the world and exceedingly weak of character, was, 
when left to herself in a difficulty, like chaff before the 
wind. She was very pretty, and she was amiable by nat- 
ure, quite fitted to take her part in the world with a strong 
protector at her back, but as helpless alone as a ship with- 
out a rudder. Noel’s ardor and strength of will made her 
fancy herself strong for the time ; now she was stranded 
on rocks, flung hither and thither at the mercy of the 
waves. 

The next morning Mrs. Vernon had a letter from her 
lawyer. Mr. Trevor remaip-ed insensible. The marriage 
was legal and binding. She at once decided upon flight, 
and wrote to Mr. Benson telling him her plans. 

“ I shall keep you informed where I am, ” she wrote, “but 
I do not intend to let my servants have my address; there- 
fore I shall ask you occasionally to forward my letters when 
I write for them. It is, of course, unpleasant to awaken 
suspicions and to behave mysteriously, but for the present 
I have only one object, which is to prevent Mr. Trevor fol- 
lowing us. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vernon's butler had been some few years in her 


ONCE AGAIN. 


service. She summoned him, and informed him of her in- 
tended departure. Her tone and manner ere so natural 
that the man, although he had a shrewd suspicion that 
there was something at the bottom of this sudden journey 
more than met the eye, had nothing to confirm it. 

“ I have made up my mind in a great hurry, Haynes,” 
said his lady, affably. “I am tired of this fog and smoke, 
and want to get to a pleasanter climate. I cannot give 
you any address at present, as I shall perhaps only stay a 
night in Paris, but will let you know as soon as possible 
where to forward my letters. We shall most likely re- 
turn very soon : be prepared to hear that we are on our 
way back at any moment.” 

Mrs. Vernon saw Dulcie for the first time that day when 
she got into the brougham which was to take them to the 
railway-station. She w^as very pale, and looked utterly 
wretched, but her mother, instead of compassionating her, 
felt nothing but deep and bitter anger against her. Not a 
word was exchanged between them. Dulcie was fright- 
ened as well as sullen, and Mrs. Vernon had come to the 
conclusion that the best and safest plan would be to avoid 
all mention of this dreadful matter for the present. She 
did really and honestly hope that Noel would die, and so 
free her from the most terrible dilemma that ever hap- 
pened to an unfortunate woman. It was not a very cheer- 
ful prospect to think of having for her only society a com- 
panion who felt for her and for whom she felt a smothered 
hostility ; and she resolved to hasten at once to the south of 
France, where she would meet old friends, or make new 
acquaintances, and not be thrown entirely upon her dis- 
obedient daughter for companionship. 

Mrs. Vernon disliked the Continent, and was fond of 
London — particularly fond of her home. She liked her 
own comfort, her regular mode of life, the pleasant society 
amidst which she moved. Well off, the mother of \i 
pretty, marriageable daughter, who had a fortune of her 
own, her position had been a very agreeable one; but 
now shame, disgrace, bitter disappointment, had overtaken 
her, and she felt oppressed and worried to such a degree 
that she could scarcely contemplate the future with calm- 
ness. 

It happens occasionally, by a merciful dispensation, that 
when thmgs are looking their blackest some consoling in- 
cident brings a break in * our despair ; and now a simple, 
though very fortunate occurrence came as a perfect god- 
send to Mrs. Vernon. She and Dulcie had taken their 
places in the Dover train. Presently the door of the car- 
riage opened, and two more ladies were admitted — one 
quite young, but very sickly and delicate- looking. She 


30 


ONCE AGAIN. 


was helped in by an older lady and a maid, who busied 
themselves with Avraps and cushions in making the invalid 
comfortable. 

Mrs. Vernon at once recognized in the mother, as she evi 
dently was, a once intimate friend and schoolfellow, of 
whom, however, she had seen nothing for years. For the 
moment, this lady was far too much occupied with the in- 
valid to remark the other occupants of the carriage, and" it 
was only just as the train was about to start that her eyes 
met those of Mrs. Vernon, and a sudden light of recognition 
and inquiry daAvned in them. Then very cordial greetings 
were interchanged. The daughters were presented, and 
Mrs. Vernon, to her unspeakable relief, was no longer tete^ 
a-tete with Dulcie. 

“We are on our way to Nice,” said Mrs. Chester. 
“To-night we sleep at the Lord Warden, to-morrow go 
on to Paris, and then by stages to the end of our journey, 
as my little girl affectionately— “ cannot bear much 
fatigue. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vernon at once decided that she would make her 
movements agree with theirs. Not only had she a liking 
for her old friend, but she felt it would be everything, both 
for herself and Dulcie, not to be thrown much upon each 
other’s society in their present mood. 

“My son will join us to-night,” added Mrs. Chester. 
“ Dear fellow ! it is so good of him to leave his hunting, and 
he dislikes going abroad so much ; but he knew Ave should 
be nervous traveling without a gentleman, and agreed quite 
Avillingly to take us and fetch us home again. We cannot 
get on without him ; can we, Lilah?” 

“No, indeed;” and the small, wan face of the invalid 
lighted up. 

“You have only one son, I think,” asked Mrs. Vernon. 

“ One son and one daughter. And this, I believe ” — Avuth 
a kind look at Dulcie— “ is your only treasure?” 

“ My only one,” replied Mrs. Vernon, trying hard to put 
a little motherly warmth into lier words and her glance at 
Dulcie. Dulcie, too, essayed a feebly responsive smile. 

All the way to Dover the tAA^o elder ladies chatted to- 
gether, becoming deeply interested in their reminiscences 
of by -gone days. The meeting gave genuine pleasure to 
both. Before they reached their destination they had 
agreed that the journey to the south should be taken in 
each other’s company. 

Dulcie was amiable, and had pretty manners. She was 
kind to the little invalid, and helped to make her more 
comfortable ; and Lilah, who Avas very much attracted by 
good looks, took a great fancy to her. 

The party dined together in Mrs. Chester’s sitting-room. 


ONCE AGAIN 


31 


and about nine o’clock Sir John arrived. He had succeeded 
his grandfather in the baronetcy, his father having died 
only one month earlier. 

He was not a little surprised to find four ladies instead 
of two ; but it was evidently an agreeable surprise. And 
when his mother hastened to tell him that they were all 
going to travel south together, he expressed frank satisfac- 
tion. Dulcie was very pretty. He liked pretty girls. She 
had a pleasing manner, and he was wont to pronounce 
manner ‘ ‘ half the battle. ’ ’ 

For his own part, he Avas a tall, broad-shouldered young 
fellow, whom it would have been impossible to mistake for 
anything but an Englishman— with blue eyes, remarkabl}^ 
good teeth, and the frankest, pleasantest smile imaginable. 

When the party retired, after cordial good -night greet- 
ings, three at least out of the five congratulated themselves 
on the fortuitous meeting. Mrs. Chester thought it would 
be so nice for her dear boy to have a pretty girl to beguile 
him, and reflected how pleasant Mrs. Vernon’s companion- 
ship would be for herself ; Mrs. Vernon had a load taken 
from her breast on being relieved from a painful and pro 
longed tete-a-tete with her daughter ; Sir John was delighted 
at the prospect of traveling with pretty Dulcie. Dulcie 
herself was too wretched to indulge in any pleasant antici- 
pations, although she was thankful not to be left alone with 
her mother. Lilah, who was inclined to be exacting and 
jealous, was half afraid that she would not receive her due 
share of attention from her adored brother. Morton’s sat- 
isfaction was unbounded. Instead of traveling alone, she 
would have the society of the lady’s-maid and footman, 
and this agreeable knowledge materially assisted her to 
return to her usual cheerful frame of mind. 


CHAPTER V. 

In spite of this piece of good fortune, Mrs. Vernon’s feel- 
ings were far from enviable. Her daughter was really 
married — married to a worthless adventurer, as she chose 
to consider poor Noel. Worldly and ambitious, she had 
determined that Dulcie should make a good marriage, and 
with this in view had rejoiced at her good looks and had 
made the most of her in every way. She should marry a 
man of wealth, position, perhaps of title. Why not? She 
was exceptionally pretty ; she had money of her own ; she 
might marry any one. And now this fair fabric of hopes 
had fallen like a house of cards, dissolved in mist like a 
castle in Spain. And the child on whom she had placed 
all her hopes had not only disappointed her, but had dis 
graced her in the most heartless and cruel manner. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


B2 


It seemed inconceivable, when she remembered Dulcie’s 
yielding disposition. She had never shown any will of her 
own — had never, at all events, attempted to combat her 
mother’s ; how, in so short a time, had a man gained suf- 
ficient influence over her to cause her to act in a manner 
totally opposed to her natural weakness and timidity? 
Then Mrs. Vernon thought with a pang of Sir John Ches- 
ter. 

He was not, perhaps, so great a match as she had imag- 
ined for Dulcie; but compared with Noel Trevor he was a 
splendid alliance. And here these young people would be 
thrown together with exceptional opportunities. It was 
easy to see that Sir John already admired Dulcie, and he 
was so good-looking and pleasant that a girl could not fail 
to like and be attracted by him. It even crossed Mrs. Ver- 
non’s mind that should Sir John fall in love with Dulcie 
the position might become extremely embarrassing. She 
had told Morton distinctly that the marriage was null and 
void. Morton had, of course, repeated this to Dulcie, and 
Dulcie, unable to communicate with Noel, and without the 
means of discovering anything for herself, was tolerably 
certain to take it for granted that she was free. Well, the 
man might die, and Mrs. Vernon most sincerely hoped he 
would. 

The next day was fine ; the sun shone, the sea was calm. 
Sir John’s attention was at first entirely taken up by his little 
invalid sister ; his strong arms carried her on board the boat, 
he placed her, with all a woman’s gentleness, in the most 
comfortable position, and saw that she had everything she 
could possibly want. A deck-cabin had been engaged for 
her, but she preferred to lie out in the fresh air. Her 
mother, the maid, and the footman hovered about, but it 
was her brother who did everything for her and to whom, 
she looked to supply her every want. Her eyes watched 
him jealously when, having devoted himself to her com- 
fort and said many gay and cheery words to her, he went 
and sat down by Dul^cie. 

Poor Dulcie ! her brain was in a whirl. She had never 
yet been abroad. As she watched the sunlit cliffs lessening 
in the distance, she told herself that she was leaving all 
she loved behind — leaving Noel dying, perhaps dead. A 
superstitious terror crossed her that this was a judgment 
upon her for having disobeyed her mother ; almost for the 
first time, the enormity of the wrong she had committed 
dawned upon her. She and Noel were to have gone to 
Paris together, and now he was lying in a hospital and 
she was on her way to Paris with her mother. If only 
that awful doubt of him could be set at rest ! — if she could 
be assured that he had not deceived her willingly, know- 


ONCE AGAIN 


33 


ingly ! — if there were any one she could turn to for coun- 
sel, in whom she could confide ! It was a relief to her at 
first that her mother made no reference to the subject ; 
she had dreaded her anger unspeakably, her severe re- 
criminations ; but now she felt this horrible uncertainty to 
be almost worse. 

Sir John noticed how pale she was, and that her ^es 
shone with tears, but he only thought that she was pos- 
sibly suffering from physical qualms, knowing what deli- 
cate creatures women .were, and that, though there was no 
motion iii the boat worth speaking of, it was possible she 
was feeling, or fancying she felt, unv eil. So he engaged 
for a time in conversation with Mrs. V ernon, who exerted 
her very considerable powers of pleasing for his benefit, 
and only returned to Dulcie when they were nearing 
Calais. She was better by this time; the fresh air had 
braced her nerves ; his face was pleasant to look upon, his 
cheery voice was inspiriting, and she was able to smile at 
hijn, and to respond to his remarks with something of her 
usual manner. For Dulcie, if weak in character and not 
to be classed among clever people, was by no means de- 
ficient in intelligence, and had, as a rule, a very fair 
amount of small-talk at her command. And during the 
journey to Paris she was not insensible of the advantage 
of having a young, well-looking man of the party, anxious 
to please her and thoughtful for her comfort. He was 
bright, active, alert, saw to everything, and did not for a 
moment lose his good temper on one or two of those crit- 
ical occasions when a traveling Englishman is prone to 
show the cloven foot. His first care was always for Lilah ; 
and after her the other ladies came in for his attentions 
and good offices. 

Lilah was tired out when they arrived in Paris, and had 
to be put to bed at once ; the rest of the party dined to- 
gether in the restaurant of the hotel. After dinner, Mrs. 
Chester went up to Lilah, and Sir John suggested, if Mrs. 
and Miss Vernon were not tired, he would take them out 
to have a look at the shops. Both were g:lad enough to ac- 
cept his proposal ; each had a horror of being left alone with 
the other. Mrs. Vernon was afraid of a point-blank ques- 
tion from Dulcie which she would be compelled to answer 
truthfully. Dulcie feared her mother’s reproaches. Sir 
John’s company was a godsend to both. 

The night was clear, and not cold for the time of year. 
The lights, the gay shops, the entire change of scene, and 
last, not least, the young man’s cheeriness and vivacity, all 
helped to put them more at their ease and to dispel the 
dreadful gloom which oppressed their hearts. 

When Dulcie retired for the night, and referred, in Mor- 


34 


ONCE AGAIN. 


ton’s presence, to the late terrible event, the maid showed 
herself the reverse of sympathetic, and said, with some 
shortness, that the best thing her young lady could possi- 
bly do was to forget all about that foolish affair, and to 
thank Providence things had happened as they did, or 
what a position she might have been in now ! For Morton, 
turncoat that she was, had already dismissed Noel from 
her thoughts and affections, and had begun to consider Sir 
John as a much more appropriate suitor for Dulcie. So 
she discouraged all mention of Noel, and was not in the 
least moved by Dulcie’s tears and reproaches. 

The next day Lilah was unable to leave her room. Fa- 
tigue had brought on one of the severe headaches she was 
subject to, and she remained in a darkened room, watched 
over alternately by her mother and the maid, and was only 
able to bear her adored brother’s presence for a moment, 
when he was admitted to kiss and press her thin little 
hand without speaking. He was therefore at liberty to es- 
cort Mrs. Vernon and her daughter shopping ; insisted on 
giving them luncheon at Voisin’s; drove afterward with 
them in the Bois, and took them to the theater in the even- 
ing. Mrs. Vernon, who knew French thoroughly, did all 
the talking that was required in that language, and ex- 
plained the play to Sir John, who was as ignorant of French, 
and as shy of speaking it, as most young Britons. He 
came to the conclusion that she was one of the most delight- 
ful women he had ever met in his life, and divided his 
attentions almost equally between her and Dulcie, whom 
he thought “a dear, nice, modest little girl!” 

Golden opinions were flying about all round. When Mrs. 
Vernon reflected on the situation and on possibilities, she 
was almost driven to despair. She saw in Sir John a prob- 
able suitor for Dulcie. In her dreams, perhaps, she had 
thought of a son-in-law of higher rank and larger fortune; 
but this charming young fellow, this devoted son and 
brother, would have had small difficulty in obtaining her 
consent. He would most likely, with all the opportunities 
that would be given him, fall in love with Dulcie and wish 
to marry her, and Dulcie, perish the thought ! — Dulcie was 
a married woman already, and that fatal symbol of her 
folly lay in the drawer of Mrs. Vernon’s dressing case. 

A dreadful sense of uneasiness stole over her as she re- 
membered how she had given Morton to understand that 
the marriage was illegal. Dulcie no doubt considered her- 
self free; and suppose she, forgetting her grief and Noel 
Trevor in time, should come back to look with favorable 
eyes on Sir John ! Oh, if that wretch would only die ! Tlie 
afternoon of her arrival in Paris, Mrs. Vernon had tele- 


ONCE AGAIN, 


85 


grapher to Mr. Benson, and the second morning following 
she received a letter from him. 

“Mr. Trevor,’’ he wrote, “still lies in the same critical 
condition. I think you were a little precipitate in leaving 
England, and I must remind you that you ought to have 
apprised the court of chancery of the marriage of Miss 
Vernon; also that before taking her out of the country it 
was necessary to obtain the sanction of the court to your 
doing so.” 

Mrs. Vernon heeded this not at all. She was out of Eng- 
land, thank God ! and out of England she would remain. 
Dulcie having worked upon Morton’s feelings with extreme 
difficulty, the maid ventured to ask her mistress whether 
Mr. Trevor still lived. 

Mrs. Vernon paused a moment before replying, then 
said, in her cold, awe-inspiring voice: 

“ Mr. Trevor remains in the same condition. If he 
should die, I will tell you; but do not mention the subject 
to me again.” Then, as an after-thought, “If he does not 
die, he may be an idiot for the rest of his life. ’ ’ 

Morton made the very most of this suggestion, and drew 
a lively picture to Dulcie of the horror of having an imbe- 
cile husband, and of her good fortune in not really being 
his wife. The idea took very forcible possession of Dulcie, 
and made her thoughts of Noel full of terror and distress, 
instead of the love and sympathy which had characterized 
them hitherto. She welcomed anything that distracted 
her from these dreadful reflections, and laughed and talked 
to Sir John with a gayety which he little suspected was 
forced. It did not, however, deceive her mother. 

Mrs. Chester was delighted that her dear son should be 
so well amused. Like all good women, she was a match- 
maker, and although she had everything to lose and noth- 
ing to gain by liis marriage, she was quite prepared, when 
his choice fell on some nice, good girl, to say, ‘ ‘ Bless you, 
my children!” and vacate the home to which she was so 
fondly attached. And Dulcie, so pretty, gentle, well 
brought-up, seemed a daughter-in-law eminently to be de- 
sired. In their school-days she had always looked up to 
Margaret Lockwood as a superior being, to be admired and 
respected — a girl brought up under such a mother could 
not fail to be full of virtue and merit. 

Sir John himself, though not shy, but, on the contrary, 
much inclined for women’s society, had never, so far as 
she knew, been seriously in love or proposed for the hand of 
any woman. There was no little episode in his life of 
which she and most other people were ignorant. 

At one-and-twenty he had for the first and only time 
in his life fallen desperately in love. It was during the 


m 


ONCE AGAIN, 


first season he spent in London, when his mother was liv- 
ing qui(?tiy at home in the country and knew no more of 
his doings than he was pleased to tell her. Sir John was a 
thoroughly honorable, good-hearted young fellow, and, as 
his fortune Avould have it, the siren who fascinated him 
was a married woman. She was handsome, clever, and 
several years older than himself. For some little time she 
played with him and his heart as she would, and the condi- 
tion of his mind halted between ecstasy and misery. With 
his strong sense of honor, it was intolerable to him to sit at 
the table and take the hand of a man whom in his heart he 
was betraying, and he had a terrible time with his con- 
science. And, as it does not often happen when the blood 
is in its heyday and the siren smiles, conscience got the 
better of passion. Jack (by which name he was known to 
all his intimates), having fought a valiant fight and being 
sorely wounded in the encounter, took the only refuge of 
a brave man in such warfare, and fled. He went to Amer- 
ica for three months, spent the winter down at home, hunt- 
ing vigorously, and took good care to avoid the society 
which had been so dangerously dear to him. And from 
that time until now, though he had liked and admired sev- 
eral women, he had never felt that the society of one was 
absolutely necessary to him; and, knowing how severe a 
trial it would be to his mother, and far more to his little 
sick sister, to leave the Hall, he never encouraged himself 
to think seriously of bringing a new mistress to take the 
reins of government. He was still free and heart-whole ; 
but any dav might change this happy condition and deliver 
him over oound and captive to the charms of some fair 
maiden. 

Two or three days passed. Lilah was pretty well again. 
Her sharp, jealous eyes saw with intense dissatisfaction 
the pleasant, familiar terms on which her brother and 
Dulcie stood, and terrible forebodings haunted her. She 
was silent and irritable ; no one could please her. Poor 
little girl ! she had so few pleasures ; her lot seemed so hard 
to her. Never to be able to do anything like any one else ! 
The idea of not being first with her idolized brother was 
unendurable, and the possibility of leaving that home, 
Avhich was the dearest spot of earth to her, increased her 
melancholy and irritability fourfold. 

“Why did you ask those people to join us ?” she said, 
petulantly, to her mother. 

Mrs. Chester returned, soothingly, that she thought it 
would be so nice for all of them to have pleasant compan- 
ions. But Lilah answered, with irritation, that it was not 
at all nice — that they took Johnnie away from her, and 
that most likely they would do all they could to catch him. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


37 


and that she and her mother would be .turned out of their 
dear, darling home, and then, perhaps, she (her mother) 
would be pleased with what she had done ! And poor Lilah 
began to cry bitterly, and Mrs. Chester was at her wits’ 
end to pacify her. Lilah was even irritable to her brother ; 
but he was so kind and forbearing that it was impossible to 
remain angry with him; she therefore contented herself by 
increasing her exactions fourfold and insisting on his com- 
pany at all times and seasons. 

Not selfish, as many men are in their youth and strength, 
he was so pitying and tender toward her frailness and 
weakness that many a time he yielded to her exactions 
Avith the kindest grace in the world when he would fain 
have been doing something else. And he was rewarded by 
the clasp of that poor little thin hand, the look of adora- 
tion and gratitude in the eloquent eyes of the suffering girl 
when he sat beside her couch, or took her driving, or un- 
hesitatingly obeyed some rather imperious and perhaps in- 
convenient behest. 

‘^Poor little girl!” he said tenderly to himself, “she 
might have been the strong and I the weak and sickly 
one!” He never forgot his father’s words, spoken shortly 
before he died : 

“ Always be good to the women, Jack ! Be kind to them ; 
don’t be selfish; don’t do things as if they were a bore and 
a trouble. Young fellows are apt to think too much about 
themselves and their own pleasures. Don’t you be like 
that, my boy. Be good to your mother, who is the most 
unselfish woman alive, and be kind to poor little Lilah, 
who has a sorrowful time in. store for her, even at the best ! 
If in another world we can look doAvn on this, think, my 
boy, that I shall be watching you, and blessing you if you 
are kind to them. ’ ’ 

And Jack, who loved his father dearly, never forgot 
those words, though he had such a good heart that even 
Avithout them it is very likely he would not have failed in 
duty or kindness toward those weak women who depended 
upon him. 

After three days in Paris, Lilah was well enough to con- 
tinue the journey. Their next halting-place was Lyons, 
where they stayed one night only. Lilah detested traveling, 
and was anxious to get to her journey’s end. But she was 
so fatigued when they reached Marseilles that two nights 
and a day had to be spent there in order to recruit her 
strength. 

Dulcie was charmed with the bright town of Marseilles, 
and here, as Mrs. Vernon was not very well, she and Jack 
Avere thrown a good deal in each other’s company. He 
Avalked and drove Avith her to see all the objects of interest, 


38 


ONCE AGAIN, 


and her even spirits and natural brightness partially re- 
turned to her, and she began to forget her misery and to 
look once more upon the bright side of life. The events of 
a few days before she came to regard as a nightmare. She 
was beginning to feel indignant against Noel, who she now 
taught herself to believe had laid a trap for her. Morton 
was careful to foster any thoughts unfavorable to the poor 
fellow in her young lady’s mind; and Dulcie shuddered 
with horror as Morton dwelt on his possible idiotcy, and 
related her own experience of an imbecile young man— a 
member of a family in which she had once lived. All 
Dulcie now hoped was that she would never see or hear of 
Noel again. 

Mrs. Vernon’s frame of mind was anything but pleasant. 
Her tactics had been almost too successful, and she began 
to think, not without horror, of the terrible position in 
which her daughter might find herself if she should come 
to be attached to Sir John Chester. Marry him she cer- 
tainly could not whilst her husband lived, and even should 
he die it would, she feared, be necessary that the dreadful 
story should be confessed. 

And it was not one that a lover, especially an honorable, 
straightforward young fellow, would like very much to 
hear! And, besides, Mrs. Vernon had a terrible intuition 
that Noel would not die. What should she do and say if 
some day Dulcie came blushing and smiling to tell her 
that Sir John had proposed, and that she had accepted 
him? , 

Mrs. Vernon was greatly tempted to wish that Dulcie 
had never been born, or that she had succumbed to the 
attack of scarlet fever which had nearly cost her her life 
when a child. 

Her heart sank as she watched Sir John’s manner to 
Dulcie, and the favor with which Dulcie seemed to regard 
him in return; nor was she reassured by the affectionate 
interest Mrs. Chester displayed in her daughter. She 
read plainly what was in that guileless lady’s mind, and 
it caused her to groan in spirit. Meantime, she heard 
from Mr. Benson that young Trevor was alive, and would 
probably live, but that he showed no signs of mental con- 
sciousness. 

“ If things go much further,” said the distracted mother 
to herself, “I must let Dulcie know the horrid truth.” 
Then suddenly a thought struck her. ‘ ‘ Reirie is at Cannes. 
I will get her to come to us. Perhaps Sir John will fall in 
love with her.” 


ONCE AGAIN, 


39 


CHAPTER VI. 

The morning after their arrival at Nice was perfect. The 
waves dancing in the sunshine were blue as the vault of 
heaven which they reflected; the sun was brilliant as a 
June sun in England; everywhere children offered roses 
and orange-blossoms, bright anemones, and great violets 
for sale. Sir John escorted the ladies into the town in quest 
of gay -lined cotton umbrellas to protect their complexions 
from the too ardent gaze of Phoebus. Once there, they 
lingered to look at the corals, the laces, the tempting crys- 
tallized fruits, and other wares, and afterward sat and 
sunned .themselves on the Promenade. 

“To think of this being December!” said Dulcie. “I 
wonder every one does not come away from the cold and 
the horrid fogs in England.” 

“ It is delicious, ” responded Sir John; but in his heart 
he thought of dull gray mornings in his own land which 
were more exhilarating and spirit-stirring to him than all 
this glamour of sunshine. Still, he was well content for the 
present to be where he was. 

“We shall have to go over to Monte Carlo and try our 
luck,” he proceeded, turning to Mrs. Vernon. “When 
shall it be? to-morrow?” 

“ To-morrow,” responded Mrs. Vernon, “ my niece, Mrs. 
Chandos, is coming over from Cannes to spend a couple of 
days with us ; so I must be here to receive her. But that 
is no reason why you should not go ; and perhaps you will 
take us another day . ” 

“Oh, we must all make oiir dehid together!” he laughed, 
“lam not a gambler. I shall lose my flve pounds and 
then come away ; but it would bore me to go alone. I only 
care for the outing, and an outing without pleasant cona- 
pany isn’t worth having.” 

“ I .shall like to introduce you to my niece,” said Mrs. 
Vernon. “She is a very interesting person — clever and 
original.” 

“I shall be charmed,” he replied; but mentally he 
opined that a clever and original woman would be a bore 
and a wet blanket, and, stealing a glance at Dulcie, he 
thought how inflnitely preferable was a pretty little girl 
like this with not brains enough to make a man feel like a 
fool beside her. 

“ She is a poetess, too,” Mrs. Vernon continued, adding 
to his disrelish of her picture by every word. “ Her poems 
have been a good deal talked about— very much praised 
and very much abused, which is a certain proof that they 
are above mediocrity. ’ ’ 


40 


ONCE AGAIN, 


“ I shall be horribly afraid of her,” returned Sir John. 
“ Does she wear spectacles and affect the divided skirt?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, ' ’ chimed in Dulcie, ‘ ‘ Heine is very pretty and 
dresses beautifully.” 

“ I do not think the words ‘ very pretty ’ describe her ac- 
curately,” said Mrs. Vernon. “She has a face full of charm 
and intelligence, and, if she likes you, and lays herself out 
to be pleasant to you, you will probably think her more 
than pretty.” 

But Sir John did not feel drawn to the lady in question, 
and had a presentiment, as trustworthy as most presenti- 
ments are, that he should not like her. He was even 
minded to go off to Monaco alone on purpose to avoid her. 

In the afternoon he went to the Casino and listened to 
the band, dined at the table d'hote, and spent the evening 
with Lilah in the sitting-room, each vying with the other 
in attentions to the little invalid. 

It was at luncheon the following day that Sir John saw 
Heine Chandos for the first time. One glance showed him 
that the impression he had formed of her in his mind was 
totally incorrect ; in ten minutes he had forgotten that she 
was clever and a blue-stocking, and thought her one of the 
most fascinating creatures he had ever seen. She was not 
beautiful — no, that was not the word that expressed her ; 
he felt as if he wanted an even better one. Her features 
were small and delicate, she had eyes like brown velvet, 
her hair was dark with a dash of chestnut in it, her hands 
were exquisitely delicate. She smiled at the young man, 
whose good looks and frank, pleasant manner pleased her, 
and she talked to him in a gay strain that had nothing to 
remind him of the poetess or strong-minded woman. For 
Heine was the most impressionable of her sex, and liked or 
disliked almost at a glance. 

Sir John pleased her. With swift intuition she saw in 
him a suitable husband for Dulcie, and was prepared to 
extend a cordial welcome to him as a member of the family. 
As for him, he found the greatest difficulty in taking his 
eyes from her face, and Mrs. Vernon was quick to recog- 
nize that* the mental wish she had formed was quite likely 
to be fulfilled. Any maternal jealousy that, under other 
circumstances, might have been awakened in her breast 
was laid now by the thought of the painful complications 
that would occur should Sir John have any serious ideas 
about Dulcie. 

It had been arranged that Mrs. Chester, Lilah, and her 
brother should go for a drive that afternoon to Villefranche. 
and Dulcie had been invited to accompany them. Mrs. 
Vernon and Heine were to follow in one of the delightful 
little pony- carriages which abound at Nice. Their young 


ONCE AGAIN, 


41 


charioteer drove from the small seat at the back, and, as 
he did not understand a word of English, the two ladies 
were able to converse with absolute freedom. 

For the last few days Mrs. Vernon had deliberated 
whether Reine should be informed of the terrible event; she 
was perfectly trustworthy, and had plenty of common 
sense, but still the mother shrank from putting any one in 
possession of this miserable secret, though it weighed so in- 
tolerably upon her that she felt that to share it would be 
the greatest relief. 

They were driving along at a smart pace, and, at a curve 
in the road, came in sight of the rest of the party, whose 
carriage preceded theirs. 

“ I think, Aunt Margaret,” said Reine, gayly, “that this 
looks very promising. Sir John seems an extremely nice 
young fellow, and will make you an excellent son-in-law.” 

As Mrs. -V ernon made no reply, Reine turned to look at 
her, and was surprised at the gloom and despondency ex- 
pressed on her features. 

“Why, auntie, do you not approve of him?” she asked, 
in a tone of surprise. 

“ I approve of him entirely, ’ ’ rejoined Mrs. Vernon, “ but 
—but ” 

“ Is he poor?” asked Reine, jumping at once to the only 
possible obstacle she could imagine. 

Again Mrs. Vernon was silent for a moment, and looked 
away at the blue waves sparkling so merrily in the sun- 
shine. Should she or should she not tell Reine, was the 
question which for the moment absorbed her. 

Reine was silent and waited. She conjectured some^ 
thing of the doubt that was passing in Mrs. Vernon’s mind, 
and forbore to influence her decision by pressing a ques- 
tion. She affected to engrossed by the scene around 
her. 

Mrs. Vernon knew that silence is golden — that it is best 
not to confide a secret that tells against us, even to a sin- 
cere friend~so many unforeseen things may come in to 
change friendship to coldness, distrust, rivalry; yet for 
once this strong-minded, self-contained woman felta woful 
need of sympathy, of help. And she really trusted Reine : 
she had been a true friend to Reine in her time of trial, 
and Reine had a grateful nature. 

At last Mrs. Vernon spoke: 

“ My dear,” she said, “ I am in dreadful trouble. I be- 
lieve that I should be wiser to keep it to myself, and yet 
the burden of it is almost too much for me to bear alone. 
You are the only living being with whom I would trust 
this horrid secret, and before I do so I must have your 
sacred promise that you will uever breathe a word of it to 


42 ONCE AGAIN. 

any one— that you will behave as though you were in en- 
tire ignorance of it.” 

Heine laid a sympathetic hand on her companion’s. 

“Dear auntie,” she said, “ you may safely trust me. I 
am so grieved to think you are in trouble.” 

“ Promise!” repeated Mrs. Vernon, with a show of nerv- 
ous excitement quite unusual to her. 

“ I promise you faithfully and truly,” answered Eeine, 
in a low, clear voice, looking into her aunt’s eyes with a 
gaze which spoke absolute truth and sincerity. 

“I can scarcely bring my mind to speak the words,” 
uttered Mrs. Vernon, moving uneasily; “you will think I 
have taken leave of my senses. Can you believe,” with 
increasing irritation, “ that wretched girl has made a clan- 
destine marriage with an adventurer?” 

Eeine forgot the sea, the sunshine, the flowering trees 
and shrubs, which had up to this moment delighted her 
senses, and a look of horror that was absolutely tragic 
crept into her eyes. 

“ Dulcie!” she stammered, almost inaudibly. 

“Yes,” cried lier aunt, “ Dulcie— Dulcie, who one 
thought had no will or idea of her own. Nor had she,” 
with rising indignation; “the man found out. of course, 
that she had money, and worked on her feelings, and, I 
suppose, pretended to adore her, and so, one morning, 
without my knowing even that she was keeping up an 
acquaintance with him, she walked out of the house and 
was married at the registry office.” 

For a moment Eeine was speechless ; then she said : 

“But some one must have helped her! some one must 
have connived at it ! Dulcie is the last girl in the world to 
plot and arrange such an affair for herself.” 

“Of course the man managed everything, and Dulcie 
had some one to aid and abet her also— the valuable Mor- 
ton.” 

‘ ‘ Morton !” echoed Eeine. ‘ ‘ But she is here with you !” 

“ Yes, ” replied her aunt, bitterly. “You may easily con- 
jecture that, if I could, I would have turned her out of the 
house on the spot without a character; but I had only one 
idea, and that was to keep the wretched affair a secret. If 
I had wreaked my anger on her, she would have blazoned 
the stor.>' abroad in revenge, and I had great hopes the 
wretched man would die. And, after all, she has been use- 
ful in a way. I have never breathed one word to Dulcie on 
the subject, but I have given her to understand, through 
Morton, that the marriage is illegal.” 

“But,” interrupted Eeine, “how did you get her away 
from him, and why do you say you hoped he might die?” 

Mrs. Vernon told her the strange story of the accident. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


48 


Heine listened in wonderment that absolutely deprived her 
of speech. When the story came to an end, she had only 
one question to ask. 

“ But are you sure the marriage is legal? I thought a 
Ward in chancery could not marry without the consent of 
the court.” 

” So I thought ; but Mr. Jenson explained to me that it is 
the property and not the person ot the ward with which 
the court concerns itself. The only comfort is that he will 
not be able to touch her money ; they will see that it is set- 
tled upon herself.” 

Then Heine, with a woman’s instinct, inquired about Mr. 
Trevor’s appearance; but Mrs. Vernon was far too preju- 
diced to give a fair account of him. 

“ A most ordinary young man,” she said, “ with nothing 
to say for himself. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But, ’ ’ cried Heine, ‘ ‘ the thing which baffles me is that 
Dulcie, after such a strange and terrible experience, should 
seem quite herself, quite unchanged!” 

” Dulcie,” said her mother, bitterly, “ has no more feeling 
than that rock. Do you suppose a girl with a particle of 
heart could have acted to a devoted mother with such 
ruthless disregard of what she would suffer as Dulcie did 
in leaving me? One can scarcely expect, then, when things 
went wrong with her lover and caused shame and discom- 
fort to herself, that she would retain any serious regard 
for him. Besides, mercifully, she is under the impression 
that he had entrapped her into a false marriage. ’ ’ 

” Aunt Margaret,” said Heine, very earnestly, “ I think 
she ought to know the truth; Suppose that she and Sir 
John fall in love with each other; it will be a terrible pre- 
dicament for every one. ’ ’ 

‘‘ I will not tell her at present,” answered Mrs. Vernon, 
firmly. ” What guarantee have I that she would not sud- 
denly take it into her head to run away from me and go 
back to him, or write to him to come to her?” 

“But, if he recovers, you cannot prevent him from 
claiming her!” 

“ I am determined,” replied Mrs. Vernon, “ that in any 
case this marriage at the registry office shall remain a 
secret. A regular engagement shall be gone through. I 
shall pretend ” — with a groan — “to give my consent, and 
there shall be a decent and proper ceremony in church. 
Oh, Heine!” — with tears in her eyes, a very unusual 
symptom of weakness with her~“ this has nearly broken 
my heart!” 

Heine was the most sympathetic woman in the world. 
She cried, too, for pity of her aunt’s grief, and used every 
effort to console and comfort her. When, a few minutes 


44 


ONCE AGAIN, 


latei*, the carriage with the rest of the part}" turned and 
passed them on its way back, and Dulcie smiled and waved 
her hand to her cousin, Eeine returned the gesture gayly ; 
then she leaned back, and marveled how it was possible 
for a woman to be so heartless ; but a moment later she 
murmured to herself : 

“How fortunate, oh, how fortunate for her! Happy 
girl!” 

That evening the whole party dined at the table d'hote. 
Lilah persisted that she was not tired, and was so eager to 
dine with the others that her wish was not opposed. Sir 
John sat between her and Dulcie : the three other ladies 
had seats immediately opposite. *The young man chatted 
away to Lilah and Dulcie, but his eyes wandered frequently 
to Eeine. She 'svas more than pretty, he thought. She 
looked so high-bred. Her hands, he remarked, w^ere mar- 
velously delicate and well-shaped. To meet her eyes and 
see her smile gave him a sensation of delight. Now and 
then he said a few words to her, and she responded with 
the charming grace she always used to those who pleased 
her. 

There were people going about the w^orld who averred 
that Mrs. Chandos was a proud, haughty, disagreeable 
woman, w^ho gave herself great airs which, considering 
her unfortunate position, were quite unwarranted. On the 
other hand, those to whom she accorded her friendship and 
sympathy praised and belauded her in a manner almost 
savoring of extravagance. Sir John seemed likely to rank 
among the latter class. 

‘ ‘ What a tremendous mistake I made, ’ ’ he said, in a low 
voice full of satisfaction, to Dulcie, “when I imagined 
your cousin to be a blue-stocking and strong minded ! She 
is one of the most charming women I ever met.” 

“Eeine is very nice,” replied Dulcie; but the words 
seemed extremely tame and unsatisfactory to her auditor. 

“ Where can I get her books?” he continued. “I don’t 
care for poetry, as a rule, but I am sure I should like 
hers.” 

“I think Tauchnitz has published them,” Dulcie an- 
swered; “but you had better not talk to Eeine about them. 
Nothing annoys her so much as for any one to allude to 
her writings.” 

“Eeally!” exclaimed Sir John. “It seems to me I 
should be so awfully proud if I were an author, I should 
want to publisli the fact on the house-top. By the way,” 
trying to assume an indifferent tone and coloring slightly , 
“ is there a Mr. Chandos?’^ 

Dulcie caught the contagion of his blush fourfold, and 
looked exceedingly uneasy and embarrassed. 


OyCE AGAIN. 


45 


‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ she stammered ; “at least ’ ’ 

But Sir John hastened to change the subject, shocked at 
having asked an indiscreet question. 

Then he relapsed into silence, and sat wondering what her 

strange answer could mean. “No; at least ” Surely 

there must either be a husband or not. Could it be possi- 
ble that 

A feeling of disquietude stole across him. Presently he 
raised his glance to Heine’s face, and something in the ex- 
pression or her eyes gave him a horrible suspicion that she 
knew what he was thinking about — knew what he had 
asked Dulcie. He felt miserable and ashamed of himself ; 
he dropped his eyes, and thought that he should not dare 
to raise them again ; then, suddenly, her sweet voice struck 
gayly on his ear ; she was asking if he had been to Monte 
Cario yet. 

“No,” he answered, eagerly; “but we were talking of 
going to-morrow. Will you not come too?” 

She hesitated a moment before answering. 

“ If, whilst you are all in the gambling-room, you will 
leave me outside to enjoy the lovely view, I will go,” she 
said. 

“ Oh, I am not at all keen about gambling,” he exclaimed, 
eagerly, thinking how infinitely he would prefer to stroll 
about the grounds with her. ‘ ‘ I shall go in for ten minutes 
and try my luck and lose my money, and then I shall 
breathe the fresh air and look at the scenery, and I hope 
you won’t think my company a bore.” 

“ I am sure I shall not,” replied Eeine, graciously. 

“ Then it’s a bargain, ” cried the young man, with spark- 
ling eyes. 

“You and Dulcie are going, of course?” said Eeine, turn- 
ing to her aunt, and Mrs. Vernon assented. 

“ Can I not go too?” pleaded Lilah, with tears in her eyes, 
looking eagerly at her brother. 

‘ ‘ Of course you shall go, little one, if you are up to it, ’ ’ 
he answered, kindly ; but Mrs. Chester gave him a warning 
shake of the head. 

The next morning poor Lilah was ^ in no condition to 
think of any kind of gayety : the exertions of the day be- 
fore had brought on one of her severe headaches. Sir John 
could only just creep in on tiptoe and whisper to her that 
the very first day she was well enough he would take her 
over, and that he would bring her back a ‘ ‘ fairing ’ ’ this 
evening; and in return she feebly pressed his hand, unable 
even to ^eak. 

Mrs. Chester remained with the invalid — indeed, the 
excellent lady had a secret horror of the wicked Monte 
Carlo— and Sir John escorted the other three ladies in a 


46 


ONCE AGAIN. 


very proud and pleased frame of mind. He did not, how- 
ever, forget his poor little sister, and on the way said to 
Eeine, in a tone very much subdued from its natural 
blitheness : 

“ Is it not strange how in this world some people suffer 
so dreadfully without any fault of their own? Look at 
poor, dear little Lilah, nearly always in pain. She is as 
good as gold, and wouldn’t hurt a fly ! And here am I, a 
great hulking fellow Avho does not know what an ache or 
a pain means 

“I do not suppose you would hurt a fly either,” replied 
Heine, smiling at him with a benevolent, almost a mater- 
nal, smile ; and indeed she felt as though he were a nice, 
frank Eton hoy and she a middle-aged woman. 

He looked at her as if he did not quite understand. He 
liked her to smile at him, but he did not like her to treat 
him as though he were a mere lad. 

Eeine changed her tone. 

“ It is very sad for her, poor child, ” she said. ‘ ‘ But, oh ! 
how many sad things there are in the world!” And she 
drew such a deep, deep sigh that a wave of pity swept over 
Jack’s sensitive heart, and he felt that she herself had 
some dreadful trouble of which she was thinking. Her 
eyes wore a far-off look, and for the moment she seemed to 
have forgotten his existence. 


CHAPTEE VII. 

When they arrived at Monte Carlo, Mrs. Vernon and 
Dulcie, escorted by Sir John, made their way to the Casino. 
Eeine insisted on remaining in the gardens, and was proof 
against all entreaties to accompany them inside the build- 
ing. 

“ I do not like to see poor human nature in its most de- 
based form,” she said, smiling. “ It is bad enough at its 
best.’’ 

The words impressed Sir John painfully. He did not 
like to hear pessimistic views from such charming lips. 
But he smiled, and answered : 

“ I hope you won’t see any very serious change for the 
worse in us when we come out.” 

‘ ‘ I hope not, ’ ’ she returned, in the same vein ; and, with 
a little gesture of farewell, she turned and left them as they 
entered the Casino, and went into the gardens to a spot 
whence she could see the glittering sea and the sunshine 
flooding the red rocks. 

Her thoughts traveled away from herself, and were cen- 
tered upon Dulcie and the shipwreck she had made of her 
life. Eeine, in spite of a certain amount of cjuiicism and 


ONCE AGAIN, 


47 


disbelief which suffering had infused into her mind, was 
rather prone to credit what she was told, and had accepted 
Mrs. Vernon's version of the story and description of Noel 
without allowing for her aunt’s prejudice. She took it for 
granted that Dulcie’s husband was the needy adventurer 
represented ; and she thought sorrowfully of the fate which 
awaited her poor unstable cousin. 

She had always been fond of Dulcie, who was so fair and 
soft and pretty, so yielding and docile. This black sheep, 
this good-for-nothing fortune-hunter, would, no doubt, op- 
press and-ill treat her, unless, for pecuniary reasons, he 
found it advisable to behave to her with some show of con- 
sideration. Why were women always compelled to suffer 
through their best affections? But then a sudden tholight 
pulled Eeine up sharply. Could Dulcie’s phlegmatic nat- 
ure be made to suffer very acutely? It was only about ten 
days since she had been torn from the man whom it was to 
be presumed she loved, or thought she loved, and yet she 
was smiling, amused, and evidently capable of taking con- 
siderable interest in what was going on around her. And, 
for all she knew, he might be lying dead. 

And now, with the extraordinary irony in which Fate de- 
lights, she was thrown into the society of Sir John Ches- 
ter, one of the nicest, pleasantest-mannered, kindest- 
hearted young men imaginable, Eeine said to herself. His 
face was an open book ; only to see his kind, tender ways 
to his poor little sister stamped him at once the good fel- 
low he was. What a smooth, fair-sailing voyage might 
Dulcie’s life have been with such a helmsman ! Should we 
ever in the future know why things happen with such cruel 
perversity? 

Her reflections were broken in upon by hurrying feet 
and laughing voices. 

“ W^'e have found you at last,” said Sir John, in the gay- 
est accents. “ Have we been gone too long?” 

Eeine was more considerate than to reply that she 
thought it could be scarcely ten minutes since they 
parted. 

All three faces were smiling and good-humored. 

”We have broken the bank,” laughed Sir John, open- 
ing his hand and exhibiting a rouleau of gold, and the two 
ladies followed his example, and showed each a smaller 
one. ” We have won thirty pounds between us, ” contin- 
ued the young man gayly . ‘ ‘ I had the most extraordinary 
run of luck. I played first for myself and then for the la- 
dies, and, by Jove ! I believe if we had not stopped I should 
have gone on winning.” 

“Then vou were very wise to come away,” returned 
Eeine, witn a smile. “If you were to win too much, it 


48 


ONCE AGAIN. 


would give you a taste of gambling, and you might not 
be able to tear yourself away until you had lost every 
shilling you possess. ’ ’ 

Still that same kind, patronizing tone, as if he were an 
Eton boy ! It would have vexed him, if he had not been 
too good-tempered and too full of admiration for her to 
allow himself to be ruffled. 

“ Let us go and have lunch, shall we?” he proposed ; and 
the ladies assented. Sir John went on a little in advance 
and ordered an elaborate dejeuner., and bought a beautiful 
spray of flowers for each of his guests. 

“ It would only bore you to carry bouquets about,” he 
explained to them, “so I chose these.” 

Heine had many moods : to-day she was in one of her 
brightest. She talked with vivacity, was amused and 
pleased by everything, and Sir John was lost in admiration 
of all she said and did. Mrs. Vernon observed this, and 
was by no means ill pleased. Were he to fall in love with 
Dulcie, what a terrible dilemma she would be placed in ! 
Unless — but no ! if Noel had been going to die, he would 
have died before this, and Mr. Benson would have informed 
her of the fact by telegram. 

Dulcie was pleased and complacent ; all she wanted was 
to forget Noel, against whom she felt a dull sense of anger. 
Sir John was kind, and she liked him, but she had no de- 
sire for the present that either he or any other man should 
fall in love with her. 

Luncheon was scarcely begun when Sir John, uttering 
an exclamation, started up and hastened to greet a man 
who entered. A hearty slap on the shoulder, a vigorous 
hand- shake, followed by a slight colloquy, and then Sir 
John returned to his party beaming with smiles and 
bringing his friend in tow. 

“ My cousin, Alwyne Temple,” he said. They all bowed, 
and Heine remarked : 

“I think we met in Home.” 

Mr. Temple came round and took her hand with more 
politeness than cordiality. 

He was a remai^kably handsome young man, tall, well 
made, with clear-cut features, rather dark than fair, well 
dressed, and in every way calculated to attract observa- 
tion. His manner, however, precluded all idea that he had 
any desire to be observed ; it was perfectly quiet, self-pos- 
sessed, and self-reliant. 

Sir John bade the waiter lay another cover, and the 
man put the chair and serviette between the two younger . 
ladies, with a nice and sympathetic consideration of pos- 
sible affinities. 

Sir John plied his cousin with questions, and it was not 


ONCE AGAIN. 


49 


until tliese had been responded to, and luncheon had made 
considerable progress, that he remarked a decrease in 
Reine’s vivacity. Alwyne’s eyes were constantly turned 
upon Dulcie, and his conversation, when not given to his 
cousin, was entirely devoted to Iier. 

It then occurred to Sir John that Alwy lie’s presence had 
not contributed to the general cheeriness, but rather the 
reverse. Before his arrival, Reine had been the life of the 
party; now she said very little, and her eyes no longer 
continued to meet his as they had done. And he came to 
the conclusion that this made all the difference to his 
pleasure. 

Presently Mrs. Vernon proposed that she, with Reine and 
Dulcie, should leave the gentlemen to smoke and have a 
chat whilst they looked at the shops and strolled in the 
Casino gardens. But the two young men showed no dispo- 
sition to be left, and begged that they might be allowed to 
be of the party. Sir John made his way quickly to Reine’s 
side. 

“ I want you to help me choose a present for Lilah,” he 
said, ‘ ‘ and some flowers as well. ’ ’ 

So they turned their steps to the florist’s at the Grand 
Hotel, and Reine selected an exquisite basket of the choicest 
blossoms to be sent to meet them at the train. Then they 
went into a jeweller’s and bought a gold bangle for the 
little invalid. The young man was dying to present a 
souvenir to his companion, but instinct told him that it 
would not be accepted, and he had a mortal awe of dis- 
pleasing her. 

When they emerged from the shop, the others were 
nowhere to be seen. This delighted Sir John, and Reine 
was far too much a woman of the world to feel, or affect, 
the smallest embarrassment at the circumstance. 

‘ ‘ I suppose they are tired of waiting, and have gone on 
to the gardens, ’ ’ she said. “We must look for them. ’ ’ 

And, side by side, they strolled in the sunshine, one of 
them unreasonably happy, the other placidly content. 

Reine led the way to a spot commanding one of the love- 
liest views, just beyond the trente-et-quarante room. The 
golden roof and spires of the Casino and its gilded parapets 
glowed with dazzling brilliance against the wonderful blue 
of the sky, and the Moorish arabesques ornamenting the 
roulette-rooms, rose, fairj^-like, from the groups of palms, 
cacti, and aloes planted with a cunning eye to effect. And 
below and around were rocks and wooded ravines, banks 
of exquisite flowers, glimpses of coast, sea, and sky giving 
an indescribable effect of gorgeous coloring which dazzled 
the senses, and yet, like all nature’s handiwork, was 
harmonious in its richness and beauty. 


50 


ONCE AGAIN 


Both stood and gazed in silence. Sir John felt as though 
a new era had opened in his life. He was susceptible to 
the beauties of nature, but to-day these were enhanced a 
thousandfold by the charm of the woman at whose side he 
stood. It was as if the sunshine that flooded the scene 
had penetrated his heart and was glowing and burning 
there. But, glancing at Heine, he felt that her thoughts 
were far, far away from him, and that the sun was not 
shining in her heart. He longed to read her thoughts; 
but he had not the smallest clew to help him. 

Presently she moved on without speaking, and he, afraid 
to break the spell, followed her in silence. She took her 
way to the first terrace; there she paused and looked 
round. 

“ I do not see a sign of them,” she remarked. “ Let us 
sit here and wait. If they do not come, we will go and 
look for them at the music. It is lovely here, is it not?” 
she added, after a moment, with a little sigh of satisfac- 
tion. 

“ It is heavenly,” answered the young fellow, radiantly; 
but, as his eyes were fixed on his companion’s face, it 
would seem as though his remark had more reference to 
that than to view or garden. 

Then again, for the space of some seconds, Eeine seemed 
to have lost herself in memory, for her eyes wore the far- 
off look which Jack had already observed, and a wistful 
expression crossed the face he thought so infinitely charm- 
ing. He did not venture to break in upon her reflections. 
She came back from dreamland presently, and, turning, 
smiled at him. 

” I was a long way off,” she said, as though answering 
his thoughts. ‘ ‘ I have a trick of taking flights from the 
present. It is not at all well-mannered of me.” 

He would have protested, but she stopped him. 

‘ ‘ So, ’ ’ she remarked, * ‘ Mr. Temple is your cousin ? He 
is very good-looking. As a rule, I have a strong leaning to 
good looks.” 

Jack, in his honest heart, felt something almost akin to a 
twinge of jealousy. But he said, cordially: 

“ Oh, yes, he is a handsome chap ; women generally like 
him.” 

‘ ‘ I have an idea, ’ ’ pursued Peine, in a reflective tone, 
” that he does not like me ” 

“Not like you!” echoed Jack, in the sort of tone which 
he might have used had some one brought forward the 
proposition that the world was square. 

“No,” said Peine. “ But that,” she went on, “ is not so 
much on account of anything I have done or left undone 
as because the lady to whom he was devoted when we met 


ONCE AGAIN 51 

in Eome detested me, and probably gave him a bad im- 
pression of me.” 

“Why did she detest you?” cried Jack. “Was she 
jealous of you?” 

“There was nothing to be jealous of,” returned Eeine, 
serenely. “ She did not even know me.” 

“ Then how could she have spoken against you to him?” 

“Don’t you know,” said Eeine, lightly; “that the 
people Avho take our characters away are always those 
who do not know us? The lady had, I believe, made some 
little overture to being acquainted with me, but, to tell 
you the truth,” and again Eeine looked out seaward, and 
that melancholy expression deepened in her face, “Ido 
not care to make new acquaintances. I like to have a few 
friends — real friends, in whom I believe, who believe in 
me; and beyond that,” with a little gesture of her hand, 
“social intercourse is well enough just to pass the time, 
but it is void, hollow— a sham.” 

Would she ever let him be her friend? Jack wondered, 
eagerly; yet he did not dare put bis thoughts into words. 
She had relapsed into silence, and presently he ventured to 
say something which had been on his mind all day. 

“Do you know, Mrs. Chandos,” he began, with diffi- 
dence, “ I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but I want 
awfully to read your books.” 

Eeine put her fingers to her lips. “ Hush!” she replied: 
‘ ‘ that is a forbidden subject. I do not pose as a poetess, 
and I detest any one to speak to me about my books. ’ ’ 

Seeing how discomfited he looked she continued, in a 
lighter vein : 

‘ ‘ Besides, I am quite sure poetry is not in your line. ’ ’ 

Jack was far too truthful to deny this impeachment, 
but he answered, with fervor : 

‘ ‘ I should like anything that you wrote. ’ ’ 

She gave him a glance which was almost malicious. 

“Do you like what is immoral and atheistic?” she in- 
quired. 

Jack’s face was a study. Wonder, doubt, misery, in- 
dignation, all played their part in it. 

‘ ‘ That is what the critics, or at least some of them, call 
my verses. They are indelicate : they give evidence of 
being written by a person to whom faith and modesty are 
but meaningless words, and the only thing they have to 
recommend them is a certain swing and rhythm probably 
caught from careful and protracted study of Swinburne.” 

Eeine kept her eyes on Jack’s face, but it was turned 
from her ; she saw the red (‘olor rise in it and his hand 
involuntarily clinch round his stick. Her own face had 
flushed ; she chose to repeat the hard things that had b^en 


52 


ONCE AGAIN, 


written of her; but though she affected to despise criti- 
cism, this one sentence had always been as a dart thrust 
through her breast. For she was a modest, delicate, re 
fined woman, and the lines she had written, if they breathed 
of passion, as indeed they did, were absolutely free from 
any taint of coarseness. Coarseness is often enough in the 
mind of the reader, even as ‘ ‘ beauty is in the eye of the 
beholder. ” 

Jack was so full of pain and misery that he wanted a vic- 
tim. 

‘ ‘ Tell me, ’ ’ he cried, turning to her with flashing eyes. 

‘ ‘ who said that, and I will kick him, no matter who 
he is!” 

Eeine laughed ; the vehemence of his championship did 
her good. 

“And suppose,” she said, archly, “it was a woman.” 

Jack’s face fell; the suggestion was like a doiiche of cold 
water on his ardor. 

“ Was it?” he asked, ruefully. 

‘ I do not know. Never mind. Let us change the sub- 
ject. Shall we go and listen to the music?” 

She rose as she spoke. Jack was not so blithe now ; the 
scene was not the same to him that it had been ten minutes 
ago. Reine, seeing the change in him, felt sorry for what 
she had said, and exerted herself to talk freely and to re- 
move the painful impression from his mind. And she suc- 
ceeded soon enough. 

Jack remarked without displeasure that his companion 
excited a good deal of observation of a respectful kind. 
Her dress and demeanor were those of a well-bred woman, 
a woman of taste ; her voice was low, her manner full of 
repose. But she was remarkably elegant, and her slight 
figure was graceful in the extreme. Reine was dressed 
entirely in black, with a sheen and glint of jet over rich 
silJ^ ; the only color about her was a tiny, bright-hued bird 
in her bonnet. She carried in her hand a large black par- 
asol bordered with flounces of fine lace and embroidered 
cunningly with a little bird which exactly matched the one 
in her bonnet. 

They entered the concert-room and seated themselves. 
A moment later the orchestra commenced the dreamy pre- 
lude of one of the favorite valses of the day. The first 
lingering notes were followed by a joyous burst of soul- 
stirring melody that made the blood tingle in Jack’s veins 
and filled his heart with a great desire to put his arm round 
Reine and glide away with her to that enchanting region 
where real lovers . of dancing with sympathetic partners 
find themselves once and again. He turned eagerly to 
whisper his wish to her, but her eyes were closed, and 


ONCE AGAIN. 


53 


presently, as he gazed at her delicate face, a tear forced 
itself from under her broad eyelids. 

A choking sensation rose in Jack’s throat; a feeling of 
sympathy, of strong desire to console her, mingled with 
the passion stirred by the music. Never had so intense a 
sentiment moved him since the days when he fancied him 
self madly in love. He knew by instinct that this feeling 
was infinitely more exalted, more worthy, than that. 
Then a tormenting curiosity overwhelmed him to know 
Heine’s story. Had she a husband? Great Heaven! he 
thought, if she had, he would never get over the knowl 
edge. But what on earth had her cousin meant by that 
evasive answer to his question? 

Once more the music swelled into a joyful paean, then 
languished and died away in a wail of violins. Then he 
turned again to his companion, who was in the act of re- 
moving her handkerchief from her eyes. They wore a 
lovely humid look, a look full of sadness, but as they met 
his, she forced a smile. 

‘'Will you think me capricious,” she whispered, “if I 
wish to go out again? Sometimes music is more than I can 
bear. That was lovely, but —but ’ ’ 

“ I know, I know,” said Jack, in a tone of whose tender- 
ness he was not aware. ' “Music does put strange thoughts 
into one’s head sometimes.” 

She looked at him with more interest than she had yet 
felt. She had not given him credit for being sympathetic 
or having a soul for music. 

‘ ' I think all nice people care for music, ’ ’ she said, and 
her words set his heart beating with pleasure. 

At the door they came upon the rest of their party. 

“ My dear Heine, we meet at last!” exclaimed her aunt. 

‘ ‘ This is a terrible place for losing people ; we really ought 
not to have left you in the jeweler’s, but we strolled a 
little further on, and I suppose that is how we missed 
you.” 

“All’s well that ends well,” returned Heine, gayly. 
“ And now we must be careful not to divide again.” 

Jack’s heart sank at these words; he wanted to have her 
to himself, this last hour had been so heavenly. And 
to-morrow she was to return to Cannes, and he would still 
be at Nice, and, oh ! how dull and altered the place would 
seem ! 

Alwyne Temple was devoting himself to Dulcie, to whom 
it was evident he was greatly attracted. Jack saw this, 
and, always ready to be good-natured, suggested that his 
cousin should return to Nice with them to dine and sleep. 

Alwyne assented readily. He would be charmed. He 
had onl}^ come over here for a couple of days ; in reality he 


54 


ONCE AGAIN. 


was staying with his sister at Cannes, but had found it 
rather slow there. 

A sudden thrill of joy shot through Jack’s breast. If his 
cousin Belle Pierpoint w^as at Cannes, he would have an ex- 
cellent pretext for going over there. He and Belle had al- 
ways been the best of friends. 

The day at Monte Carlo had been a thorough success, 
Mrs. Vernon pronounced, as the train bore them back to 
Nice. 

“And,” said Jack diffidently to Reine, “have you— at 
least I hope you have not been bored?” 

“I ha^e spent a very pleasant day,” she answered, 
looking kindly at him. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

After dinner. Sir John and his cousin strolled out to- 
gether for a smoke and a chat. Alwyne was very full of 
Dulcie, the nicest, prettiest, most charming girl he had 
met for ages. 

“Tremendous luck for you, Jack, traveling with her, 
stopping in the same hotel with her, and having such op- 
portunities, ” he said. 

“She is very nice indeed,” Jack assented, without 
warmth, wondering how any man could have eyes for 
Dulcie when Reine was present. But he thanked Heaven 
that such a case was possible and had even happened. 

He was burning to know something of Mrs. Chandos, 
but was deterred from asking questions of Alwyne first 
by shyness and secondly by an intuition that his cousin 
was prejudiced against her. He felt that he would want 
to kill any man who breathed a word in her disfavor. 
People sometimes fall in love insensibly, but Jack’s eyes 
were wide open, and he could not pretend to give any 
other word to the feeling which Reine had that day 
inspired in him than love. Alwyne himself opened the 
subject. 

‘ ‘ I must say there is not much resemblance between 
the cousins,” he remarked. “I never saw two women 
more unlike in every way than Miss Vernon and Mrs. 
Chandos.” 

“You knew Mrs. Chandos in Rome?” said Jack, inter- 
rogatively. 

“ Very slightly. I heard a good deal about her, but it 
doesn’t amuse me to run after ladies who give themselves 
airs.” 

Jack flushed, but the night concealed it from his cousin. 
He tried to speak indifferently. 


ONCE AGAIN 


55 


“I have seen no sign of Mrs. Chandos giving herself 
airs.” 

“She may not to you,” returned Alwyne; “indeed, I 
remarked she was uncommonly civil to you ; but she is as 
capricious as a cat. I expect she had her head rather 
turned in Eome, so that very few people were good enough 
for her. She pretends not to care for society, puts on 
cynical airs, doesn’t, I’m told, believe in anything, and 
writes improper poetry: so she has got a reputation for 
being original, and a few fools run after “her.” 

“ What do you mean by improper poetry?” asked Jack, 
in a smothered voice, repressing a desire to take his cousin 
by the throat. 

“ Oh,” said Alwyne, lightly, “ it does not shock me, but 
I must say some of the verses are rather warm. The best 
part of it is that she is as cold as ice herself, and, I believe, 
hates men. She had rather a bad time with her husband. ” 

Her husband! Jack’s heart gave a bound. At last he 
was to know. 

“ Has she a husband?” he asked. 

“ No: she got rid of him.” 

“ Do you mean that she is divorced?” 

“ I do mean that. He was rather a scamp— drank, I be- 
lieve, and committed other atrocities; so aftei,\ about a year 
she had enough of him and got a divorce. He had lots of 
money, but she would not have a halfpenny of it, and took 
her own name again. I daresay she led him rather a life ; 
she looks as if she could. I expect authoresses are not very 
pleasant people to live with. I shouldn’t care for one, I 
know. Now, look at that pretty Miss Vernon. I’ll be 
bound she couldn’t write a line of poetry to save her life; 
but I am sure she’d make a deuced nice little wife.” 

Jack had heard enough — too much — by this time. He 
felt an odd sensation in his throat ; an angry pain gnawed 
at his chest. With strange abruptness, he started off into 
an entirely new topic. Alwyne observed nothing. The 
darkness had hidden the changing expression of Jack’s 
features from him, and he had been too much absorbed in 
himself all day to remark how much attracted his cousin 
was by Mrs. Chandos. Even now, his ideas being fixed on 
one subject, he did not notice Jack’s irrelevant remark. 

“ People say that it is Henry Bertram who has done Mrs 
Chandos all the mischief,” he continued; and Jack, like 
the moth that has made an effort to get away from the light, 
but is again drawn toward it, was forced to ask who Henry 
Bertram was. 

“You must have met him,” answered Alwyne. “He 
goes everywhere, is a very good fellow, and extremely 
popular ; but he believes in nothing, and has done his best 


ONCE AGAIN. 


e^6 

to pervert Mrs. Chandos. At all events, she is devoted to 
him, and he to her. When he is of the party, she seldom 
takes notice of any one else.” 

” Is she going to marry him?” asked poor Jack, with a 
dreadful sinking at his heart. 

“ Good Lord, no! Bertram wouldn't marry to save his 
soul, though, by the way,”— laughing — “as he does not 
believe in souls or their being saved, that’s not very ap- 
propriate. Oh, no: there’s nothing of that sort. They 
are purely platonic ; and he is old enough to be her father. 
They are both clever, I suppose, and fancy themselves and 
each other, and think it fine not to believe in God.” 

Jack felt that he could not bear any more of this. He 
knew that Alwyne’s speech was generally colored by ex- 
aggeration and a certain amount of malice, if he did not 
like the person of whom he spoke. But every word he 
said about Mrs. Chandos hurt his auditor more and more, 
and Jack suggested a return to the hotel. 

They found Mrs. Chester and Dulcie in the sitting-room. 
Lilah had gone to bed. The two other ladies had retired 
for a confidential chat. Sir John talked to his mother, 
and Alwyne devoted himself to Dulcie. Presently he sug- 
gested showing her some photographs, and went to his 
room in quest of them. On his return, he laid them on 
the table, and, approaching his cousin, put a small book 
into his hand. 

“There, Jack,” he said, with a meaning smile, “ is some- 
thing that will interest you.” 

Jack glanced at the title-page, and read, ‘ ‘ Verses from the 
South;” then, with an instinctive desire to conceal the book 
from his mother thrust it into his pocket. 

Mrs. Chester remarked the action, but said nothing. She 
was far from being a woman of the world, yet she was dis- 
creet in the way of not asking questions. 

Jack had only one idea now — to get away by himself and 
read this precious volume, to assure himself that Mrs. 
Chandos had been foully maligned. His mother saw that 
he was distrait^ and half fancied him to be ruffied by Al- 
wyne’s taking possession of Dulcie. It was too bad of Al- 
wyne, she thought, but he was always selfish and insisted 
on drawing the attention of every woman to himself. He 
was such a butterfly, there was no fear of his standing 
seriously in his cousin’s way ; but he ought to have seen 
how matters stood, the excellent lady reflected, and not 
have interfered with dear Johnnie. 

For she really contemplated the possibility of having 
Dulcie for a daughter-in-law, and the idea commended it- 
self to her. Dulcie was so amiable, so pretty, and so lady 
like; all her ideas seemed so thoroughly proper, modest, 


ONCE AGAIN 


57 


and correct. It was not yet ten o’clock, so Jack could 
scarcely make a pretext of going to bed ; but he was pres- 
ently inspired by the idea that he wanted to look at one 
of the papers in the reading-room, and started off as though 
he only intended to be absent for a few minutes. But, 
once outside the door he rushed to his room, lighted his 
candles, flung himself into a chair, and, trembling with 
eagerness and other emotions which he did not pause to 
analyze, devoured the pages. 

That night was one which he would never forget iC he 
lived to be a hundred. Until then it seemed to him as if 
he had never felt, never suffered. A thousand ideas and 
•instincts were developed in him which had lain dormant 
before ; his mind, generally so calm and unruffled, was torn 
by strange speculations; his even pulses throbbed with 
fever; love, jealousy, doubt, disappointment, fear, revolt, 
all struggled and fought and tore his heart with relentless 
fingers. 

He thought the verses beautiful ; there was a rhythm, a 
cadence in them that struck softly on his senses ; and yet, 
as he read, he Avished— he wished — that she had not writ- 
ten them. The current of passion underlying them smote 
him with jealous pangs— if she could write thus of love, it 
was because she had knoAvn and felt it. Who was the 
man, he wondered, bitterly, who had wrung these passion- 
ate verses from her? He would have given his life, he 
thought, if she had penned them to him, for him alone, to 
be seen by no other eyes than his. But that she should 
have written them for some other man, and then have 
given them to the vulgar world to read and make mock of, 
to turn their delicacy into grossness, to utter coarse in- 
nuendoes about them, seemed incomprehensible to him — 
jarred unspeakably on his finer perceptions. There was 
another thing which hurt him almost as much. He was 
not religious, he was far from being a goody-goody young 
man, but he had been brought up among religious influ- 
ences, and it had never once entered his honest heart to 
doubt God, or heaven, or hell, or any other of the faiths of 
Christianity^ 

Through all the verses there breathed a spirit of intense 
melancholy, of utter hopelessness. Men were puppets of 
some cruel force, struggling, suffering without aim, Avith- 
out guidance, grasping after happiness which ever eluded 
them, mocked at by fate, and trodden back into earth Avith 
the dust and leaves of bygone years. 

There Avas no indication of any trust in Divine love or 
goodness; and this proof that the womap he loved be 
lieved, as Ahvyne had said, in nothing, hurt Jack cruelly. 
He thought with smothered hatred of the man who had 


58 


ONCE AGAIN. 


taken the most precious of all gifts a woman can have, 
faith, from her; he clinched his fist involuntarily, as 
though her evil genius were within reach of a blow. 

It was two o’clock in the morning, and still Jack sat 
there with his soul distraught and full of misery. He loved 
this woman, and he did not want to love her ; personally 
she was all that was sweet, fair, and gracious in his eyes, 
but his heart and mind could not approve of her. Yet he 
was madly anxious to hear what she herself had to say 
about these things ; he did not want to judge her even by 
what she had written. But it was scarcely likely she 
would deign to give any explanation to him, whom she 
only seemed to regard with the patronizing kindness of. a 
woman of the world for an overgrown boy. 

He went to bed, slept for a few hours, and woke early. 
The thoughts of the night before came back painfully to 
him, and he rose and went for a walk. It was a lovely 
morning, but he felt for once incapable of enjoying the air 
and exercise that were usually so stimulating to his vigor- 
ous health. Of course he had but one idea — a mad longing 
to see Mrs. Ohandos again, to look at her by the light of 
this new and painful revelation, and to know whether he 
would care less for her now. 

He breakfasted with his mother and Alwyne in their sit- 
ting-room. 

"Halloo, Jack!” cried his cousin, as they met; “what 
the deuce became of you last night? I hunted about for 
you all over the place. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I went to bed, ’ ’ replied Jack. 

“ I say, old chap, you were not annoyed at my talking to 
Miss Dulcie, were you? I wouldn’t trespass for the world 
on your property, you know. ’ ’ 

Jack saw that his mother was regarding him with some 
eagerness, as if she too suspected that he had been annoyed 
by Alwyne’s monopolizing the young lady. 

“Not in the very least,” he replied, in a tone whose 
heartiness was calculated to remove doubt from both 
minds. “She is a very nice, pretty girl, and you shall 
both have my blessing if it is of any use to you.” 

Mrs. Chester felt a twinge of disappointment 

“I hope, my dear Alwyne,” she said, a little stiffly, 
“ that you will not make your attentions to Miss Vernon 
too marked. You know her mother and I were at school 
together.” 

Alwyne laughed gayly. 

“My dearest aunt,” he replied, “ I assure you thedaugh 
ter of your school-friend shall be respected. But now,” 
coaxingly — and his manners were extremely seductive 
when he wished them to be so— “ why should we not make 


ONCE AGAIN 


59 


up a party and go for a delightful drive? We can have 
two carriages, and Jack and I will go with Mrs. Chandos 
and her cousin, and you and Mrs. Vernon and Lilah in the 
other.” 

Alwyne seldom troubled his head to consider Lilah’ s 
feelings, and she detested him cordially in consequence 
and never lost an opportunity of being spiteful to him. 

But Jack did not forget her, although Alwyne’ s proposal 
seemed delightful to him. 

“Poor little Lilah!” he said, “we must think of her. 
She had a bad time yesterday, and will, I dare eay, want a 
voice in arranging matters to-day.” 

Alwyne’s look intimated plainly, “ Confound Lilah!” but 
he could not give verbal utterance to the sentiment. He 
had been a spoiled child all his life, and abhorred contra- 
diction. 

Jack, seeing and interpreting his look, said, good-humor- 
edly: 

“Never mind, old chap; we will see that you are paired 
oif with Miss Bulcie. Have you any idea, mother, what 
the other ladies are going to do to-day?” 

“I rather fancy,” Mrs. Chester replied, “that Mrs. 
Chandos returns to Cannes this afternoon.” And, as a 
swift change, a look of blank disappointment, crossed her 
son’s face, a sudden and unpleasing idea took possession of 
her mind. 

She hoped from the bottom of her heart that her dear 
son was not going to allow himself to be drawn away by 
the fascinations of this dangerous woman. For Alwyne, 
after Dulcie left them the previous evening, had given his 
aunt a little biographical sketch of Reine, even more highly 
colored and less favorable than the one which he had pre- 
sented to Jack. 

Mrs. Chester was, like many excellent women, narrow- 
minded. She was extremely religious, and thought of 
doubters and sceptics as miserable castaways directly 
under the Divine ban. A male unbeliever was a shocking 
spectacle, but there were no words adequate to describe 
her horror of a woman without religion. In her eyes, 
too, a divorced woman was a social pariah; if a woman 
was unfortunate enough to have a bad husband, she must 
suffer her sad fate in silence and with resignation, seeking 
comfort in prayer and good works. Mrs. Chester was 
kind-hearted, very reticent of giving an unfavorable judg- 
ment upon any one, but her convictions were remarkably 
strong. She had only seen Mrs. Chandos for a few min- 
utes, and had admired her genuinely and been struck by 
the charm of her manner; but after Alwyne’s revelation 
she had felt strongly that the less she and her family 


60 


ONCE AGAIN. 


were brought in contact with Eeine, the better. She was 
almost disposed to blame Mrs. Vernon for having intro- 
duced her to them. 

When she saw the look of pain and disappointment on her 
son’s face at the announcement of Mrs. Chandos’ depart- 
ure, it gave her a shock as though the knowledge of a mis- 
fortune had come suddenly upon her. The next moment 
she felt distinctly glad that temptation was to be removed 
from her dear son. Mrs. Chandos would leave Nice. 
John would forget her and resume his attentions to Dulcie. 
Alwyne, she hoped, would also go back either to Cannes 
or Monte Carlo, and their present little party would be re- 
stored to its original composition. Sir John had at mes- 
ent given no intimation of any intention to return to Eng- 
land, though, w^hen they started, it was supposed that as 
soon as he had seen them comfortably settled at Nice he 
was to return to his hunting, hitherto the first object of his 
life. 

The door opened, and a waiter brought in a note from 
Mrs. Vernon. She wrote that her party would take advan- 
tage of the lovely weather to sit out on the Promenade ; 
would Mrs. Chester and Lilah join them there? If not, she 
hoped they would all meet at lunch, when they might make 
some arrangements for the afternoon. 

“ It will do Lilah good to go out in her chair,” said Sir 
John, rising with alacrity. ” I will go and ask her what 
she thinks about it.” He returned to say that lilah was 
most anxious to be out, and Mrs. Chester wrote a line to 
Mrs. Vernon proposing that they should all meet on the 
Promenade in an hour’s time. 

Lilah had made her brother promise to devote himself to 
her this morning — to sit, and walk by her chair ; and, how- 
ever irksome Jack found this promise to make and keep, 
lie had not the heart to refuse or evade it. 

“Come on,” said Alwyne to him; “I see them out 
there;” but his cousin, repressing the eagerness he felt, 
merely answered : 

“ All right: you join them. I must wait for Lilah.” 

So Alwyne went, and Jack paced the room in an agony 
of impatience until Lilah made her appearance. When 
she was settled in her chair they started for the Prom- 
enade, and presently came upon the rest of the party 
seated on a bench, Alwyne evidently bent on making him- 
self agreeable to Dulcie, whilst her mother and Peine were 
deep in conversation. x\s the chair drew up in front of 
them, they all rose and greeted Lilah, who received their 
attentions with great affability. She liked to be the center 
of attraction, and her wan little face lit up with smiles. 
Peine spoke very sweetly and kindly to her told her they 


ONCE AGAIX. 


ni 

liaci missed her at Monte Cai'lo the clay before, described 
the place to her, and said that her brother must certainly 
take her to spend a day there. She proposed to walk on a 
little way with Lilah in her chair, and the invalid was de- 
lighted. So they moved forward, Jack on one side, Reine 
on the other— he unusually silent, but drinking in every tone 
of the gracious voice which, as he thought, dropped pearls 
and diamonds; feeling every moment that his doubts about 
her were vanishing like a morning mist before the sun- 
shine, and that she was the sweetest, most lovable woman 
upon God’s earth. It filled him Avith joy to see how Lilah 
took to her, Lilah who was so prone to show jealous dislike 
of any one whom he seemed to admire. But her sharp 
eyes had not yet discovered his attraction to Reine, her 
fixed idea for the moment being that Dulcie was the object 
of his attentions and thoughts. 

Lilah talked quite confidentially to Reine ; spoke of her 
own sufferings and privations, with tears in her eyes ; of 
the hardship of being different from other people and un- 
able to enjoy life as they enjoyed it. And Reine replied in 
her sympathetic A^oice that it was indeed hard, most hard, 
but that some day, perhaps, Lilah Avould outgroAv her ail- 
ments ; and she called to mind a wonderful cure that had 
been effected by some German baths in a similar case. 

Lilah’ s eyes brightened. 

‘ ‘ Oh, ’ ’ she exclaimed, “ if I could only be well, I should 
be so happy!” 

“ But,” said Reine, “ do you find that every one is happy 
just because they are free from aches and pains?” 

‘ ‘ If they are not, they ought to be, ’ ’ returned Lilah, 
peremptorily. “I don’t pity any one Avho is strong, and 
sleeps Avell, and never has a headache. ’ ’ 

“ What about heart-aches?” said Reine, Avith a sad little 
smile. 

“Oh, those are easily got over,” returned Lilah, Avith the 
flippancy of a person speaking of a disorder Avhich he has 
never experienced. 

“ At all events, this lovely day ought to cure every ache, ” 
said Reine, brightly. “ It seems impossible to realize that 
we are so near Christmas.” 

Jack, though comparatively happy at being in the com- 
pany of Mrs. Chandos, had the natural longing of a man 
AA^ho loves a Avoman to be alone Avith her; but Fate only 
granted him this opportunity for a A^ery feAv minutes. His 
mind Avas full of questions that he desired to ask her, and 
he Avas keenly anxious to knoAv Avhen and where he Avas 
likely to see her again. 

“I am so awfully sorry that you are going aAvay,” he 


62 


ONCE AGAIN 


said to her, taking advantage of the very first moment 
when they were out of earshot of the rest of the party. 

“ Thank you; you are very kind,” replied Eeine, 
lightly. 

Her tone hurt him ; it was as though she declined to take 
seriously the words that were so seriously meant. 

” I wanted so much,” Jack went on, humbly, “to have 
talked to you — to have asked you about— about a lot of 
things— about your book which I read last night. ’ ’ 

“Oh,” said Eeine, in a voice that held a slight accent of 
mockery, ‘ ‘ have you really been reading some of my 
verses? I hope they have not shocked you.” 

“ I think they are beautiful,” he said, and then stopped 
short. 

‘ ‘ But ! ’ ’ she sa id , raising her eyes to him and smiling. ‘ ‘ I 
distinctly detect a but in your voice. ’ ’ 

Jack hesitated. The color deepened in his face. He 
ardently desired to speak, but some emotion chained his 
tongue. His very silence confirmed her suggestion. 

“You are shocked. You do not approve of them,” said 
Eeine, a faint pink illumining her own cheek. ‘ ‘ I am a 
thought-reader. You cannot deceive me.” 

There was a touch of disdain in her tone and heart, a 
slight feeling of resentment that this young fellow whom 
she had passively tolerated as an admirer should presume 
to constitute himself a judge. 

“ Why do you take such a bad view of life?” burst out 
Jack, impetuously. ‘ ‘ Why do you write as if there were 
no good in anything?— as if the world w^as a miserable 
place, and there was nothing to look to in the future?” 

“ Perhaps I write according to my experience and con- 
victions, ’ ’ she returned, with some coldness. 

“No,” cried Jack, “ that cannot be. 1 will not believe 
it is natural to you. Some one else has given you morbid 
thoughts. Why should you have such ideas — you, who are 
beautiful, and whom every one loves?” 

“Including your cousin?” she asked, in a nlocking 
voice. 

“1 do not think his opinion matters much,” replied 
Jack, committing a breach of tact in permitting her to see 
that her surmise was correct. 

Unreasonable as it was, Eeine was nettled by his admis- 
sion. She thought a score of hard things about herself, 
but she did not like to have it proved that any one thought 
ill of her. 

“After all,” she said, coldly, “ I do not think that either 
he or you can be in a position to judge of the actions, 
thoughts, or feelings of a person comparatively unknown 
to you, Every one who chooses to buy my books is, of 


ONCE AGAIN 


63 


course, at liberty to form his opinion of them, and find 
what fault he chooses with them ; but he is not at liberty 
to discuss them with me or to take me to task for the 
sentiments expressed in them.” 

“ Oh,” stamm0red Jack, utterly abashed and miserable, 
you do not think I would be such a presumptuous ass as 
to ” 

But here they arrived at the hotel door, at which Al- 
wyne was standing. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Jack did not go in to lunch, but wandered about miser- 
ably alone. He had offended the woman he would have 
given anything he possessed to please, and he told himself 
that he was one of those fools who rush in where angels 
fear to tread, and that he had been guilty of an unpardon- 
able impertinence which she would probably never over- 
look. He might never see her again ; in an hour she was 
going back to Cannes ; probably if they ever met in future 
she would ignore him. Poor Jack, as he flung himself on 
a bench and surveyed the scene that seemed so glorious 
only an hour ago, was in a mood much more suited to com- 
prehend Mrs. Chandos’ pessimistic views than he would 
then have thought possible.^ The present was melancholy 
and the future blank. 

It was a dreadful thing that, in the midst of a life which 
seemed full, complete, bright, one should be liable to have 
its whole pleasing tenor changed by the introduction of one 
fresh element. A man is happy and contented, thoroughly 
satisfied with his surroundings; he accidentally meets a 
woman, and forty -eight hours later she is the pivot on 
which his every thought and action turns; her presence 
and her smiles constitute Paradise, her absence and her 
frowns plunge him into misery. Yet every other incident 
of life is unchanged. Jack, in his normal condition, 
thought hunting the panacea for all ills; but at this mo- 
ment, when he told himself that he had better get back 
to it, the thought, so far from stimulating his fancy, made 
him feel profoundly dejected, and the sport he had so 
ardently loved seemed a very poor exchange for looking 
into the eyes of Reine Chandos on the shores of the blue 
Mediterranean. 

Gradually one overpowering idea took possession of him ; 
lie could not part Avith her under the ban of her displeas- 
ure ; he must have one smile, one kind word from her, or 
life would be intolerable. Wending his way into the town, 
he selected a small basket and had it filled with the 
choicest white flowers; elseAvhere he purchased a box of 


ONCE AGAIN 


U 

bonbons, and proceeded to the railway station to await 
her arrival. Fortune favored him so far that Mrs. Chandos 
came attended only by her maid, and with no relations or 
friends to see her off. 

Reine’s heart was kind, and she was fiot capricious; she 
did not love to give pain to those who cared for her for 
the sake of accentuating her triumph. She saw, by the 
mingled humility and eagerness of Jack’s manner, that 
he was wearing sackcloth for his offense and was dying 
to propitiate her. After all, poor boy, his crime had 
been a small one, and prompted not by impertinence, but 
by a too great interest in her which she regretted; so 
she smiled very kindly upon him, accepted his offerings, 
and seemed quite to have forgotten that he had displeased 
her. 

For all that he dared not venture to ask if he might call 
on her at Cannes when he went over to see his cousin, so 
desperately afraid was he lest she should refuse consent or 
show him that a visit would be unwelcome. But as he 
went back to the hotel with a lightened heart he upbraided 
himself for his cowardice, and resolved that go he would, 
whatever the result might be. 

He was not soriy to find that the rest of the party were 
out driving. His mother left word for him the direction 
which they had taken, but ffe had no mind to join them, 
and preferred to saunter about with his own thoughts for 
company. 

At dinner he devoted his conversation entirely to Mrs. 
Vernon. That astute lady perfectly understood the object 
of his attentions, and willingly led the conversation to 
Eeine, of whom she spoke in eulogistic and affectionate 
terms. She was so clever, so much admired; it was un 
fortunate that her domestic experiences should have im- 
bittered her life and thoughts, but no shadow of blame 
attached to her. Mrs. Vernon did not enter into particu- 
lars about Reine’s married life, and Jack was far too well 
mannered to betray any curiosity upon the subject, though 
it was one which of all others most interested him. 

Mrs. Vernon saw with pleasure how much attracted he 
was to her niece ; it relieved her of the embarrassment 
which she feared in case his fancy had lighted upon Dulcie. 
Alwyne was paying her much more attention than Sir John 
had ever done, and Dulcie accepted it without any symp- 
tom of awkwardness or displeasure ; but this caused little 
trouble to Mrs. Vernon, as, in case of Mr. Temple courting 
his dismissal by overtures of a too pointed character, it 
would not be likely to lead to any diminution of friendship 
between the Vernon and Chester families. Indeed, Mrs. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


65 


Vernon saw plainly enough that Mrs. Chester inwardly re- 
sented Alwy lie’s interference with her son. 

Under other circumstances, Dulcie’s mother would have 
been pleased by Mr. Temple’s attentions, for she was aware 
that he was rich and that his position was undeniable. 
When she reflected on the dreadful bar which lay between 
Dulcie and social advancement, a smothered fury took pos- 
session of her. The wretch who stood between her and 
fortune still lingered much in the same state, and, now that 
he had survived so long, it seemed improbable that he 
would die. When Mrs. Vernon looked at her daughter’s 
pretty, smiling face and remembered this appalling fact, she 
almost hated her. It was not as if the girl had been led 
away by strong passion ; she was incapable of feeling it ; 
why, already it was evident that she had almost forgotten 
the man for whom she had idiotically ruined her life. 

After dinner all the party adjourned for a time to Mrs. 
Chester’s spacious sitting-room, which had windows over- 
looking the sea. Lilah was full of Mrs. Chandos, and 
talked of little else. 

“ Is she not elegant and lovely?’* she asked her brother; 
“and does she not dress beautifully? Oh, Johnnie, lam 
dying to read her books. You must get them for me.” 

The first part of her remark had been delightful to Jack. 
He was sitting beside her with^ her hand in his, and he 
had almost involuntarily given it a little squeeze, but at 
her last words he as involuntarily unclasped it. A painful 
feeling contracted his heart. He knew that he loved, ad- 
mired, respected Eeine more than he had ever done any 
woman in his life, and yet he was distinctly conscious that 
he should not like Lilah to read her poetry. He* was 
silent ; it almost seemed as if he had not heard her. 

“ Johnnie,” she said, sharply, “ do you hear me? What 
are you thinking of?” 

“ Well, my dear,” he said, trying to smile, and looking, 
as he felt, very awkward, “Mrs. Chandos’ poetry is very 
clever, but it is very sad, and I think you ought to read 
something more cheerful. ’ ’ 

“ I like sad books,” cried Lilah, impetuously: “ they ap- 
peal to me much more than the others. I am sure,” bit- 
terly, ‘ ' my life is sad enough, and it does me good to think 
that other people are miserable too, sometimes, even 
though they don’t seem to have any cause. And so,” gaz- 
ing suddenly upon him, “you have read them, have you? 
I thought you hated poetry?” 

“I have seen one book,” he said, evasively. 

“ Oh, Johnnie, have you got it? Do, like a dear, fetch it 
for me. ’ ’ 

‘‘ It is not proper reading for a little girl like you,” in- 


ONCE AGAIN. 


m 

terposed Alwyne, who was fond of teasing her ; and then 
he suddenly turned very red, remembering the presence of 
Mrs. Vernon and Dulcie. 

Lilah at once grasped at the opportunity for retaliation. 

‘ ‘ I think it is very rude of you to say Mrs. Chandos’ 
book is improper before her aunt and cousin,” she cried, 
sharply. 

“I only said for a little girl,” returned Alwyne, re^ 
covering himself: ” for every one else it is delightful.” 

” I am not a little girl,” retorted Lilah: “ I am twenty- 
one. Oh, Johnnie,” again turning to her brother, “ do — do 
go and fetch it for me, there’s a good boy.” 

Sir John was on the rack, but here his mother inter^ 
posed. 

“You know, Lilah dear, it is not good for you to read at 
night. It excites you and makes your head ache. Wait 
until to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, very well,” returned Lilah, pettishly. “ Of course 
I can never have anything I want. But I am quite sure,” 
with a vindictive glance at Alwyne, “ that Mrs. Chandos 
never wrote anything that any one might not read.” 

“Have you read you cousin's poetry?” Alwyne whis- 
pered to Dulcie. 

“No,” she answered; “ I do not care for poetry, and 
mamma said it was very clever, but that it was not alto • 
gether suitable for girls.” 

“She was quite right,” returned Alwyne, with some 
warmth. His morals were by no means of a high order, 
and most of his time was spent in the society of ladies 
who would not have been likely to take any additional 
hurt from what they read; but with his admiration for 
Dulcie had come a revulsion in Alwyne ’s sentiments to- 
ward women, and he was as much attracted now to what 
he had been used to call a bread-and-butter miss as he had 
before been repelled by the genus. 

When, later, he and Jack were smoking their cigars to- 
gether on the Promenade, he went into rhapsody on the 
subject of modesty and innocence. 

Jack could not help laughing. 

“My dear old chap,” he said, “ you have changed your 
tune with a vengeance since we last discussed the sub- 
ject.” 

But Alwyne insisted that he had always admired virtue 
in the main, though he might have amused himself with 
those who could not lay much claim to the attribute. 

“And if,” he proceeded, “ I had any idea of marrying, 
which I have not, I cannot imagine anything more delight- 
ful than to marry a girl like Dulcie Vernon.” 

“ Why not marry her?” suggested Jack. 


ONCE AGAIN 


\ 6 ^ 

“Now, there is a girl,” proceeded Alwyne, with enthu- 
siasm, ‘ ‘ thoroughly well brought up, as innocent as a daisy, 
who has not. I’ll swear, a wrong thought in her dear little 
head, and who would be as incapable of deceiving one as — 
as an angel.” 

Jack concurred heartily in his cousin’s praise of Dulcie, 
and again suggested that he should take this ideal young 
lady to wife. 

“I don’t want to marry,” returned Alwyne; “I have 
always set my face against it ; but, if I did, I can only say 
I never saw a girl I could better fancy. ’ ’ 

“Where is Belle staying at Cannes?” inquired Jack, 
changing the subject with some abruptness. 

“Oh, ’’said Alwyne, turning toward him with a short 
laugh, “the flame and the moth, eh?” 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Jack, with a touch of 
anger in his tone. 

“ I mean, my dear old chap,” replied Alwyne, very de- 
cidedly, “that you want to know Belle’s address with a 
view to going over to Cannes, and that you want to go to 
Cannes, not to see Belle, but to see Mrs. Chandos. Now, 
if you will take the advice of one who knows, you will 
leave that lady quite alone. You will only make yourself 
miserable, and won’t do any good. She don’t care for 
men: she will be civil to you for a little time, and the mo- 
ment she sees you mean business she will turn round upon 
you and wish you good- morning. It has happened to 
scores of fellows. ’ ’ 

“ I am very much obliged to you for your kind informa- 
tion,” returned Jack, with extreme stiffness. “And now 
perhaps you will answer my question about Belle.” 

“ Don’t get angry. Jack,” said his cousin. “I only told 
you the perfect truth to save you from future bother.” 

“ I don’t see what right you or any one else has to give 
advice on a subject which you merely take a shot at— and 
a very bad shot, too.” 

“We shall see,” returned Alwyne dryly. “Meantime, 
Belle is staying at the Hotel de la Plage until she gets into 
the villa she has taken.” 

“I shall go over and see her to-morrow, ” announced 
Jack, in a resolute tone, intended to forbid further remon- 
strance. “ Shall I give her any message for you?” 

“Yes; say I shall be over there in a day or two; though, 
to tell the truth, I am in no hurry to leave this place at 
present. That dear little girl has become necessary to my 
existence. There is such a delightful, shy look in those 
sweet, blue eyes of hers, I could lay my life she’s never 
been in love. Fancy, Jack, the delight of being a girl’s 
first love — of making her heart really beat for the first 


ONCE AGAIN. 

ywae—oi reading her dawning feelings in her innocent tell- 
tale eyes. ’ ’ 

“ Alwyne,” said Jack, seriously, “ you have no right to 
talk like that, or to attempt to win the girl’s love, if you do 
not really intend anything. Please remember that I intro- 
duced you to her, and that she and her mother belong to 
my mother ’ s party. ’ ’ 

“Don’t be afraid! I shall not forget anything,” re- 
turned Alwyne, lightly. 

But Jack’s scruples were not satisfied. 

“It would be a blackguard thing,” he continued, “to 
draw a girl on in the way you spoke of just now, and then 
to leave her and say you meant nothing.” 

“I don’t see any sign of Miss Dulcie’s feelings being en- 
gaged at present. And don’t alarm yourself; I am not in 
the habit of doing ‘blackguard things.’ ” 

Here they were joined by a friend, and the conversation 
came to an end. 

The next morning, after breakfast, Jack announced his 
intention of going to Cannes. 

His mother looked up quickly, with a gleam of distress 
in her eyes ; but Lilah, instead of combating the idea, as 
she was prone to do any suggestion which was to take him 
from her side, said she thought he was quite right, and 
that he must give her love to dear Belle, and beg her to 
come over and spend a day with them very soon. The fact 
was that Lilah would rather have done and suffered any- 
thing than that her dear brother should marry, and she 
had been in a terrible fright lest he should seriously take a 
fancy to Dulcie. Anything, therefore, that removed him 
from the orbit of her society was welcome to the jealous 
little sister. 

Jack esteemed himself most fortunate to encounter so 
little opposition, and it was with a joyous heart that he 
took the train for Cannes. 

When he was ushered into Mrs. Pierpoint’s sitting-room, 
that lady uttered a cry of mingled wonder and pleasure. 

“My dear Jack,” she exclaimed, “this is one of the 
greatest surprises of my life. What in the name of good 
fortune brings you here? Why, what a holiday the foxes 
must be having!” 

She gave her cheek to his cousinly salute, and he availed 
himself cordially of her generosity. 

“ Why, Belle,” he exclaimed, the content of his soul not 
being due alone to the sight of his favorite cousin, “how 
well and how pretty you look ! And how stout you are 
getting!” 

“Jack,” she replied, “you are a dear boy, but you never 
had a grain of tact. Why remind me at your very first 


ONCE AGAIN 


69 


word of the only sorrow of my life! Stout, too! — the 
coarsest, most revolting expression you could have chosen. 
As if I was a green-groceress, or the landlady of a public- 
house.” 

“ My dear,” cried Jack, ‘‘ I meant it as a compliment, on 
my word of honor: it becomes you immensely.” 

“And it is for this,” pursued Mrs. Pierpoint, tragically, 

‘ ‘ that I have taken to eating biscuits, which I hate, and 
have left oif champagne and sweets, which I love. How- 
ever, now you have stabbed me to the heart, proceed, and 
tell me what brings you here. ’ ’ 

“ I came to bring my mother and Lilah over. They are 
at Nice. We thought it might do poor little Lilah good, 
and the day before yesterday we met Alwyne at Monte 
Carlo, and he told us you were here.” 

“Is that horrid Mrs. Cunningham there?” asked Belle, 
with a tone of lively concern. 

“I don’t think so,” said Jack. “I did not see Alwyne 
speak to any lady there ; and he returned to Nice with us, 
and is there now.” 

“ Eeally? Why, what is he doing at Nice?” 

“ Just at present,” replied Jack, “he is making himself 
very agreeable to a young lady of our party, and has dis- 
covered that he much prefers girls to married women.” 

“You don’t say so!” cried Belle. “ Who is she? and is 
he really serious? I do wish he would marry some nice 
girl and settle down. He has an unfortunate knack of al- 
ways taking up with the most objectionable women. Tell 
me'quick. Jack, w^ho is she?” 

“Miss Vernon — Miss Dulcie Vernon. Her mother and 
mine were at school together, and had not seen each other 
for years, till, oddly enough, they met in the railway -car- 
riage going to Dover; and we have been together ever 
since.” 

“What is she like? Is she nice? Is she pretty? Will- 
she do?” 

“ She is everything that can be desired,” laughed Jack. 

‘ ‘ My only fear is that he will pay her too much attention, 
and not mean anything. ’ ’ 

“Oh,” cried Belle, “I must go over and inspect her. 
The one thing in the world that I want is to see that boy 
nicely married. I live in perpetual fear of some dreadful 
thing happening to him, and of his being obliged to marry 
some horrid woman or other who will pretend he has com- 
promised her.” 

‘ ‘ 1 bring a special message, imploring you to come over 
and spend the day with us. When shall it be? To-mor- 
row?” 

“ Yes; to-morrow will suit me beautifully.” 


70 


ONCE AGAIN 


Jack was delighted at the turn things had taken. His 
visit seemed the most natural thing in the world. 

“But, Jack,” exclaimed his cousin, with a searching 
glance, ‘ ‘ if she is so very desirable, and you have been 
traveling with her, and are still stopping on and leaving 
your beloved fox, how is it that your young affections have 
not become entangled?” 

“Oh,” answered Jack, lightly, “you know, Belle, that I 
am not at all inflammable.” 

Belle looked at him shrewdly. 

‘ ‘ When you are kindled, I expect you will get very much 
burned indeed. That is always the way with you unin- 
flammable people.” 

Deep down in his heart. Jack suspected that his cousin\s 
words were true, hut he put on an air of unconcern, and 
said: 

“I am safe enough, my dear.” 

“At present, ’ ’ she answered, laughing. 

Then, little knowing how oracular were her words: 

‘ ‘ But who can tell what a day may bring forth? A heart 
is lost all in a moment, just like one’s dressing-case on a 
journey. But to go hack to Alwyne. Vernon — Vernon — 
what Vernon?” 

“There is a relation of theirs staying here,” said Jack, so 
desperately afraid of his face betraying him that he walked 
to the window and pretended to be looking at some object 
outside — “ a cousin— a Mrs. Chandos.” 

“ Mrs. Chandos!” cried Belle; “you don’t say so! How 
very curious!” 


CHAPTEE X. 

Mrs. Pierpoint asked Jack a dozen questions about Mrs. 
Chandos, and before he had answered half of them his se- 
cret Vas in her possession. But she was too clever to let 
him be aware of her discovery, and good-naturedly talked 
away on the subject which interested him so vitally in the 
most natural way in the world. She did not even wait for 
his interrogatories, but proceeded to tell him all that he 
most wanted to know, and to delight him and increase his 
affection by singing the praises of the lady of his love. 

“She is perfectly charming,” Mrs. Pierpoint declared; 
“so clever, so graceful, so original; every one wants to 
know her. But she is very retiring, and so people are ill- 
natured and declare that she is proud and conceited ; but I 
am sure she is nothing of the sort. My belief is that she 
is morbid on the subject of her position as a divorced 
woman ; but every one knows that not a shadow of blame 
attaches to beir,’^ 


ONCE AGAIN 


71 


Is her husband alive?” Jack ventured to ask. 

“ He is drinking himself to death as fast as he can,” an- 
swered Mrs. Pierpoint. “I do not quite know the real 
story, but I believe that he drank before his marriage (and 
that her father knew it), but as he was desperately in love 
with her, he gave it up for a time and broke out again very 
soon after their marriage. She was horrified, and did not 
attempt to conceal her disgust for him ; then he struck her, 
and she left him. After that, he behaved in a manner 
which made it a very simple^matter for her to get a di- 
vorce. ’ ’ 

Jack was not in the least aware that his hands were 
clinched like a vise roimd his stick, and that his eyes w ere 
fixed with startling intensity on his cousin’s face; and Mrs. 
Pierpoint was kind enough not to seem to notice the 
strangeness of his behavior. She turned carelessly to her 
work-basket and took out a piece of knitting. 

“ What wretches some men are!’* she said, with a light 
laugh; “ it is no wonder she hates all the species.” 

“No wonder, indeed,” echoed Jack, with a long-drawn 
sigh. “But does she?” eagerly. 

“ So I am told. The feeling is not reciprocal : men 
admire her immensely.” 

“ I don’t see how they can help it,” said Jack, innocently. 
“Does she live alone?” 

“No; she is never quite alone. She hates solitude, and 
she has two or three devoted friends between whom she 
divides her time. She is well off since her father’s death, 
and a woman who has money need never be friendless. 
Just now she is staying with Mrs. Herbert; they have 
taken a villa together. Mrs. Herbert is a clever, agreeable 
woman, dreadfully delicate, and they bemoan life together 
in great luxury and comfort. By the way, Jack, suppose 
we go and call on them after lunch. What do you say?” 

Jack tried not to show his eagerness, but it displayed 
itself in an increased show of affection for his cousin. 
During luncheon he was so assiduous in his attentions to 
her that she said, with a malicious smile: * 

‘ ‘ My dear boy, I have a dreadful suspicion that you are 
either falling in love with me or are about to. Now, please 
don’t, because I have always gone in for the strictest pro- 
priety since my marriage, and I would not give Algy a mo- 
ment’s uneasiness for the world.” 

Jack laughed gayly. 

“Algy is the luckiest man in the world,” he said, “and 
if 1 were not your cousin. Heaven knows but what I might 
fall a victim to your charms. But up to this time I haven’t 
passed the cousinly boundary, have I, Belle? Yoit know 
cousins are allowed great latitude.” 


72 


ONCE AGAIN 


“ I thought it best to remind you in time,” she replied, 
demurely. 

Jack was in a seventh heaven at the thought of the com 
, ing visit. What did he hope or expect from it? He could 
not have told ; it was a feeling of intense joy such as comes 
to a child who hears suddenly in the midst of its lesson that 
it is to have a holiday. Only one anxiety troubled him — 
the fear lest Mrs. Chandos should not be at home. When, 
on reaching the villa, that fear was dispelled, and they 
were being ushered through the palm-lined hall to the salon, 
his heart beat high, his blue eyes danced with pleasure. 
And in another second the illusion was gone. The servant 
opened the door so noiselessly that the occupants of the 
room were not aware of the presence of visitors until their 
names were announced. 

There were two persons sitting on a large couch with 
their backs to the door, evidently engrossed in an absorb- 
<^ing discussion. They were bending toward each other with 
eager and interested looks. One was Mrs. Chandos, the 
other a man, and a pang of jealousy shot through Jack’s 
heart, and the blue vault of his seventh heaven was hidden 
by inky clouds. Before Mrs. Chandos greeted him, before 
she had time to present her companion to the new-comers, 
Jack knew instinctively who this man was. And when 
Mrs. Chandos murmured, “ Mrs. Pierpoint, Sir John Ches- 
ter, Mr. Bertram,” he was quite prepared for the name. 
As was natural, the opposite sexes paired; Sir John seated 
himself near Mrs. Chandos, but not on the couch which 
Bertram had vacated ; and Mrs. Pierpoint took possession 
of Mr. Bertram. 

The pleasure which Jack had so keenly anticipated was 
lost in disappointment ; a cruel feeling of being de trap, of 
having interrupted a pleasant tete-a-tete, overwhelmed him. 
Although Mrs. Chandos’ manner was courteous and even 
kind, poor Jack was weighed upon by the sense that he 
was not wanted. A miserable shyness crept over him; 
every particle of the blithe boldness which he had felt five 
minutes ago deserted him; he was merely an intruder. 
Instead of pouring out his pleasure at seeing her, of begging 
her to come over to Nice again as he had intended, or pro 
posing another party to Monte Carlo, he was oppressed by 
the feeling that he was nothing to her, that he in no wise 
interested her, that she could not care two straws for his 
company under any circumstances, and that he was only a 
stupid, fox-hunting young squire who could not hope to 
inspire any interest in this charming, clever woman of the 
world. • 

He stole a glance at Bertram, who was chatting gayly 
away to Mrs, Pierpoint, evidently amusing her by his con- 


ONCE AGAIN. 


versation. He was a man of middle age, with a face not 
handsome but of a pleasing expressioji; his manner was 
perfect, his voice particularly agreeable. Certainly he did 
not fulfill the conventional idea that Jack had formed of 
him as an atheist ai^d the evil genius of Mrs. Chandos’ life. 

As he sat almost tongue-tied, how bitterly he envied the 
man’s genial ease of manner! with what mortification he 
secretly contrasted it with his own awkwardness I Jack 
was not himself to-day, for indeed^ he was wont to have 
plenty of cheery talk for women as well as for his own 
sex. 

Mrs. Chandos did most of the talking, and Jack answered 
as best he might, weighted with the dreadful sense that 
she did not want him, that he was boring her, and that she 
was dying to get back to the engrossing discussion which 
he had interrupted. 

Instead of the delight he had anticipated, he was ex- 
periencing purgatory. He wished that his cousin would 
give the signal for departure; he felt even more anxious to 
get away than he had been to come. But Belle showed ijo 
intention of moving ; she was amused by her conversation 
with Mr. Bertram, and she thought she was doing Jack 
the greatest kindness in giving him the opportunity of a 
long chat with the lady of his love. 

With all her tact, Mrs. Chandos could not help at last 
showing a little weariness at the prolonged visit, and poor 
Jack, whose perceptions were terribly acute this afternoon, 
was miserable in the consciousness that she was bored. At 
last he said desperately to Belle that he was afraid of miss- 
ing his train back to Nice, although the excuse was of the 
baldest. But she took the hint, having become suddenly 
aware that the conversation of the other pair was some- 
what strained and lagging. 

When they regained the carriage. Jack’s face was so 
crestfallen and his manner so changed that, in the kindness 
of her heart. Belle forebore to make any comment, and 
rattled on with the first thing which came into her head. 
It was praise of Mr. Bertram. 

‘ ‘ He is perfectly charming, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I have heard so 
much of him, and always wanted to meet him. He is more 
interesting than a dozen young men ; and I feel quite capa- 
ble of falling in love with him myself. ’ ’ 

Belle had no idea of the dagger she was planting in Jack’s 
heart, or that he was already bitterly jealous of Henry 
Bertram. 

As Jack went back to Nice, his thoughts w^ere of the 
gloomiest. He wished he had never seen Mrs. Chandos. 
He felt as though he would never be happy again. There 
was only one thing for him to do — to get back to his hunt;- 


W ONCE AGAIN 

ing and his home interests. But, somehow, they liad lost 
their savor now, and he felt a desperate clinging to this spot, 
which a few days ago he had vowed he could not stand 
more than a fortnight of at the outside. 

Meanwhile, Alwyne had been speifding a very much 
more agreeable day. He had sat and walked with Dulcie 
and her mother on the Promenade in the morning, and he 
had driven with Dulcie and Lilah in the afternoon. It was 
very evident, from the glowing expression of his fine hazel 
eyes, that his sentiments toward the fair girl opposite him 
were hourly ititensifying, and Lilah was delighted to per- 
ceive it. Dulcie’ s manner was shy and a little embar- 
rassed, but Alwyne was very far from guessing the real 
cause of this, and put it down to sweet modesty and dawn 
ing love. In reality, Dulcie ’s thoughts were chiefly con- 
cerned with Noel— with wondering if it were an absolute 
fact that he was nothing to her and could in no way con- 
trol her future life and actions — and partly with a sense of 
shame that her affection for him, which she had rated so 
highly, had not only dwindled away to nothing, but 
threatened to change into positive aversion, whilst it was 
useless to conceal from herself that Alwyne ’s society and 
attentions were extremely agreeable to her. 

Morton was in the highest spirits. She enjoyed the new 
life immensely ; the visitors’ servants at the hotel formed 
quite a gay and brilliant society, and she had become bosom 
friends with Mrs. Chester’s maid, who gave her the mi- 
nutest particulars of all that concerned her family. Morton 
had at first made up her mind to a match between her 
young lady and Sir John, but, seeing this did not appear to 
progress as she had anticipat€d, she next turned her 
thoughts to his cousin. True, he had no title, but the maid 
told her that he was a good deal richer than Sir John, and 
had a finer country place. 

“Why, Miss Dulcie,” said Morton, on her young lady’s 
return from driving, “ you are looking quite yourself again, 
I declare. I expect ” — significantly — “ you have been en- 
joying your drive.” 

“ Yes, I have, immensely, ” answered Dulcie, with a slight 
blush. And then she sat down and looked pensively out of 
the window. 

“ What a good-looking young gentleman Mr. Temple is !” 
remarked Morton, tentativeh . ‘ ‘ Much handsomer than 

Sir John.” 

“ Yes,” acquiesced Dulcie. 

“Now, why shouldn’t you be Mrs. Temple?” exclaimed 
Morton. “Anybody can see it only remains with you. Miss 
Pulcie, He has lots of money and a fine place; and I’m 


ONCE AGAIN 75 

sure the best thing y^u can do, to save more trouble, is just 
to get married right cfi. ' ' 

Dulcie turned uneasily in her chair. 

“ Morton,” she asked, “are you sure mamma said that — 
that affair at the registry office was illegal?” 

“Quite sure,” answered Morton, stoutly. “ She said it 
as plain as possible, and about your being a ward in chan- 
cery, and all of us being liable to be prosecuted. Oh, that’s 
right enough!” 

“I wish I was quite sure,” uttered Dulcie. 

“ Why, Miss Dulcie, what’s to make you doubt it? You 
know your mamma isn’t the lady to say a thing if it wasn’t 
true. And she says to me at the time : ‘ The marriage is 
illegal; and think, Morton, ’ she says, ‘ what dreadful trouble 
you might have brough^my daughter into. You take my 
advice ; if Mr. Temple proposes to you — and any one can 
see with half an eye that you’ve only to look kind at him 
and he will — you jump at it, and forget all that’s past and 
gone.” 

“But suppose”— and Dulcie trembled and her eyes 
dilated— “ suppose he ever heard anything about the 
other?” 

“Who’s to tell him?” cried Morton. “I expect Mr. 
Trevor, if he ever does recover, will be glad enough to hold 
his tongue. He won’t want to stand up and be shot at; 
and that’s what Mr. Temple ’ud do in precious quick time, 
you may depend, if he came troubling.” 

Dulcie made up her weak mind to accept Alwyne’s at- 
tentions. Half an hour later she was alone in the sitting- 
room, when he came in with a message from Mrs. Chester. 
After he had delivered it, he stayed on a few minutes, and 
they stood together looking out of the window. Suddenly 
Alwyne took Dulcie’ s hand, and, seeing how she trembled, 
though she made no effort to release it, he, fascinated by 
her beauty and this evidence of maiden modesty, bent to- 
ward her and touched her lips with his. A sudden flame 
covered her from throat to brow, and she drew herself 
away from him. For, as a matter of fact, this was the 
first time that a man’s lips had kissed hers, her courtship 
with Noel having taken place entirely in the open air and 
in public. 

Before Alwyne could follow up his advance, as the fire 
in his eyes betrayed his intention of doing, the door 
opened, and Mrs. Vernon appeared. In an instant she 
grasped the situation, and horror filled her breast. Here 
was an awfill dilemma. Her daughter married to one man 
and receiving — in ignorance, it is true— the advances of 
another 1 

gut she gave not the faintest sign of observing the confu- 


76 


ONCE AGAIN. 


sionof the pair, and listened w^ith an excellent grace to th^ 
message which Alwyne promptly bethought himself of de- 
livering. She took care that he should have.no opportunity 
of speaking alone with Dulcie agmn that evening, and A1 
wyne, who was burning to make love to this pretty creat 
lire with whom he was falling very much in love, was furi- 
ous at being baffled in his intentions. 

When Mrs. Vernon retired that night she was a prey to 
the most painful and harassing thoughts. She was ex 
asperated with Dulcie. Was the girl devoid of all heart, 
of all sense of decency, that, after having gone through so 
much for the sake of one man, she should be ready before 
a month had elapsed to fall into the arms of another? 

And now what was to be done? Should she tell Dulcie 
that her marriage w^as indeed na sham, but a miserable 
reality? No, she was afraid to do that until slie knew 
whether Noel would recover. She had no confidence in her 
daughter now : she did not know what step the foolish, 
headstrong girl might take next. She might elect to es- 
cape to her husband and bring about the esclandre which 
was the terror of Mrs. Vernon’s life. She had resolved 
that if the wretched man, as she called him in her thoughts, 
did recover, he should not claim his bride until a pretense 
of courtship and a religious ceremony had been gone 
through. 

On the other hand, if mercifully he should die, it would 
be far better that Dulcie should continue to believe the 
marriage had been invalid, in which case fear of the dis- 
grace of its being revealed w^ould insure her keeping it a 
profound secret. She must by some means keep young 
Temple and her daughter apart ; but, having discovered the 
girl’s powers of duplicity, she was horribly afraid of being 
outwitted by her. To mention the subject to Dulcie might 
be fatal; if she forbade her to give encouragement to Al- 
w^yne she might ask leading questions to which it would 
be impossible to give misleading answers. And if Dulcie 
regained her freedom the fact was not to be lost sight of 
that Alwyne would be an excellent match. 

It required an immense amount of maneuvering to pre- 
vent the young people from conversing privately with each 
other, but Mrs. Vernon devoted her entire mind to the 
task. Had she been playing her cards in order to catjh 
tliis spoiled, self-willed young man, she could not have 
succeeded more perfectly than by her present action. He 
chafed fiercely ; his passion rose to fever-heat. Marriage, 
which he hated and avoided, now occupied a prominent 
place in his designs. What on earth did the woman ex- 
pect? he asked furiously of himself. Did she want a 
prince of the blood, that he, Alwyne Temple, who had 


ONCE AGAIN 


77 


been angled for by so many mothers and daughters — 
women of title, too, by Jove I— was not good enough for 
her? 

Had she set her mind upon Jack, who, in his cousin’s 
opinion, could not hold a candle to himself in any respect, 
except, perhaps, his trumpery baronetcy ? If she had been 
very religious, like his aunt, he might have imagined that 
she disapproved of episodes in his life that might liave 
reached her ears; but no! she was a thorough Avornan c 1 
the world; no squeamishness of that sort would affect her. 
He would have asked Hulcie; but no chance presented 
itself. 

For three days Mrs. Vernon’s success was complete in 
keeping her daughter beside her; on the fourth she was at- 
tacked by a terrible migraine, Avhich rendered her abso- 
lutely insensible and indifferent to anything but her own 
sufferings. 

Dulcie spent the morning with the Chester family, and 
Alwyne, rejoicing in the discomfiture of his foe, made 
plans for outwitting her altogether. He took Jack into con- 
fidence and invoked his aid, and Jack, who was a victim 
to the tender passion at that moment, was only too ready 
to sympathize with and help his cousin. 

A big carriage was to be ordered for the afternoon. Mrs. 
Chester, Lilah, Dulcie, and Alwyne were to go inside, and 
Jack on the box. When they came to a certain mountainous 
region, the three active members of the party were to de- 
scend and Avalk, and Jack was to leave the other pair to 
each other’s society. Then Alwyne would ask for and re- 
ceive explanations, and — well, who kneAv what the end of 
it might be? 

All fell out as Alwyne had planned, and in due course, 
the walkers having alighted, the carriage having turned a 
corner. Jack having unaccountably disappeared, the tAvo 
young people were to all intents and purposes alone in the 
wide world. 

Alwyne’ s heart beat Avith unusual rapidity : he had very 
often been alone with a woman to whom he intended to 
make loA^e, but, somehoAv, this was different : there Avas an 
unAvonted excitement about it. In former cases it had gen- 
erally been a foregone conclusion hoAv his advances AAmuld 
be received, but now all was uncertainty. This pretty, 
charming girl blushed and smiled under his glances, but 
he had no proof that he had awakened any strong emotion 
in her modest breast, or that she was prepared to place her 
fate in his hands. 

Alwyn’s face was pale; his eyes shone Avith feverish 
brilliancy ; for once in his life his supreme confidence in his 
own poAvers of pleasing failed Vim; he Avas more diffident 


78 


ONCE AGAIN 


in the presence of this young girl than he had ever felt 
since his first love affair. 

The moment had come when he was to put his fate ‘ ‘ to 
the touch.” 


CHAPTER XL 

Dulcie's emotions were, taking into account her natur 
ally phlegmatic disposition, considerably excited. Mingled 
with the pleasure of being in Alwyne’s company, with a 
decided intuition of the nature of his feelings, were the 
elements of fear and uncertainty, and these had the effect 
of enhancing the situation and giving a keener interest to 
it. The love she had once imagined she felt for Noel had 
now transferred itself to Alwyn ; indeed, she found him 
much handsomer and more attractive than poor Noel. In 
his case there was no obstacle of poverty, and she looked 
to him to save her from the fears, perplexities, and evil 
consequences of her past folly. She recognized now that 
it had been folly. 

The feelings of both being worked up to a high pitch, it 
was not long before they broke into expression. Alwyne 
suddenly caught Dulcie’s hand, and the electric current of 
sympathy flashed from one to the other. It saved the ne- 
cessity for further preamble. 

” My darling!” cried Alwyne, and caught fair Dulcie in 
his arms. 

Modesty and a sense of. fear not altogether painful 
caused the girl to resist his embrace, but she trembled so 
much that Alwyne led her to the bank and seated her 
there. 

“Have I frightened you? What a brute I am!” he 
cried, with words and gestures suitable to the situation; 
for, in the nineteenth century, it is no longer possible to 
be original either in making love or anything else. And 
then he implored her to say she did not hate him, and 
Dulcie coyly reassured him. 

“Tell me,” he entreated, “why you have seemed to 
avoid me lately—why I have never had a chance of saying 
a word alone to you.” 

Now, if in former times—that is to say, before the last 
three months — Dulcie had entertained any affection for 
her mother, it existed no longer, and she was only too 
glad of the opportunity of finding fault with and throwing 
blame upon her. 

“it was mamma’s doing,” she said. “I do not know 
why, but she hates me to talk to any one or to do any- 
thing I want to. ” 


ONCE AGAIN, 79 

Alwyiie took a mental oath that his mother-in-law 
should be ousted from his menage in the happy future. 

“ What an infernal shame, my darling!” he cried. ‘‘ It 
is high time you were taken from her and given to some 
one who would never thwart you in a single wish.” 

Alwyne was probably not aware what a false and rash 
assertion he was making. Then he continued, eagerly : 

” Why should your mother object to me? What has 
she to say against me?” 

“Oh,” returned Dulcie, “she has never said anything 
against you, but I think she likes me to feel that I am 
entirely under her thumb, just as if I was ten years old.” 

“ I do not care a straw what she thinks,” cried Alwyne, 
disrespectfully, “if only I could know that you cared 
about me. Tell me darling,” once more taking her hand, 
“do you think you could love me? Will you be my 
wife?” 

A sudden remembrance flashed across Dulcie of that 
scene in the registry office, and made her falter and hesi- 
tate for a moment. 

Alwyne, in blissful ignorance of the thought that alarmed 
his beloved, saw only the diffidence of modesty in herhesi 
tation, and pressed his suit with increased ardor. 

Dulcie consented to his entreaties ; the bond was sealed 
in the manner which custom and inclination dictate, and 
they then began toremember that tlie occupants of the car- 
riage would be waiting for them. 

“Will you tell your mother?” Alwyne asked, as they 
pursued their way, and Dulcie’ s face blanched as she 
cried : 

“ Oh, no no ! Not for the world 1’ ’ 

“ Then I will!” said Alwyne, with a boldness that com- 
forted his betrothed — “the very instant that she. is well 
enough to see me. ’ ’ 

At this moment Sir John was seen in the distance wav- 
ing frantically to them. 

‘ ‘ Do not say a word to any one until you have seen 
mamma!” pleaded Dulcie, earnestly; and Alwyne prom- 
ised ; but he could not answer for his face, and that told 
its tale very plainly indeed. 

Lilah was quite irritable when they reached the car- 
riage. 

“We thought you were never coming,” she exclaimed, 
pettishly. “We shall not get home till midnight.” 

iVlwyne and Dulcie were both so happy that they could 
afford to treat Lilah’ s petulance with^good humor, and 
they apologized humbly for having kept her waiting. But 
she was cross, and would not speak all the way home. 

“ It was just like that selfish Alwyne,” she said to her- 


80 


ONCE AGAIN 


self, forgetting— poor little girl !— that the epithet applied 
with even greater force to herself. 

When Dulcie entered the sitting-room on her return, she 
found her mother lying on the sofa drinking tea. Her 
head was better, although she still felt weak. 

She did not reproach her daughter for having absented 
herself without leave, but it was evident from her manner 
that she was ill-pleased. 

“ I nhall not be well enough to dine at the table d’hote,'' 
she said; “ so, as I do not care for you to dine there with 
out me, I will order a cutlet for you up here.” 

“Surely,” replied Dulcie, who did not relish the idea of 
a lor^ evening tete-a-tete with her mother, “ Mrs. Chester 
is sufficient chaperon for me.” 

“ I do not wish you to dine down stairs without me,” re- 
peated Mrs. Vernon, in a tone that was intended to put an 
end to the discussion. 

The sullen look which often darkened Dulcie’ s face now 
came into it, and she left the room without another word. 
Mrs. Vernon sighed, as many a mother sighs who, after 
years of love and devotion to a child, finds herself repaid 
by hostility and coldness the moment she thwarts her in a 
love- or fancied love-matter. 

The evening was no pleasant one. Three months ?lgo 
Dulcie would have been affectionate and sympathetic in 
any ailment of her mother’s ; to-night she was almost osten 
tatiously indifferent to Mrs. Vernon’s discomfort, and did 
not make even the smallest inquiry about or reference to 
her sufferings. At half-past nine she went to bed. 

It had been arranged between her and Alwyne that, if 
her mother was sufficientl3^ recovered by the next morning 
to grant him an interview, Dulcie was to stand at the win- 
dow at half-past ten, holding her hankerchief in her hand. 
If an interview was not to be hoped for, there would be no 
handkerchief. 

It was with joy that Alwyne saw the little cambric 
token gently waving as he walked by the hotel. Ten min- 
utes later a note was handed to Mrs. Vernon, asking her 
if she would permit Alwyne to do himself the honor of call- 
ing upon her in a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Vernon, groan 
ing to herself, sent an answer saying that she would re- 
ceive Mr. Temple at eleven o’clock. She then hurried to 
Dulcie’ s room to demand the explanation which she, alas ! 
guessed too well. The young lady was not to be found. 
She had taken refuge in Morton’s room, two flights of 
stairs higher up, and thither it did not occur to Mrs. 
Vernon to follow her. Swiftly she made up her mind how 
to act. She knew instinctively that Alw^me was preju 
diced against her and regarded her as an adversary, and 


ONCE AGAIN. 


81 


oiiv3 half smiled to herself at the irony of fate as she thought 
how gladly and thankfully she would have listened to his 
suit but for Dulcie’s mad folly. 

Alwyne entered with a somewhat defiant air which he 
found it impossible to disguise ; but he had sufficient good 
manners to inquire with some show of interest after Mrs. 
Vernon’s health. He was a little surprised by the extreme 
graciousness and pleasantness of her manner, and insen 
sibly his own became more genial, and he felt less antipa- 
thetic toward her. The nervousness which besets every 
suppliant for something he greatly desires and is not sure 
of obtaining nevertheless overcame him. His nether lip 
trembled slightly, and he drew his thick gold rings uneas- 
ily on and off his finger. But he plunged manfully into 
his subject. 

“ I don’t know whether you are surprised at my asking 
you to see me, but — but — the fact is,” he blurted out, ‘‘I 
love your daughter, and I have come to ask your consent 
to — to my marrying her.” 

The sadness which Mrs. Vernon genuinely felt at not 
being able to give the answer she would so gladly have 
done stole into her face, and she said, very gently : 

am a little surprised, I must confess, at the sudden- 
ness of your proposal, as you have only known my dear 
child for such a very short time; but ” And she hesi- 

tated. 

“Perhaps,” exclaimed Alwyne, beginning to feel more 
hopefui at this reception, “you want to know something 
more about me, about my affairs — whether I am in a 
position to ” 

“ No, no, indeed,” interrupted Mrs. Vernon, with extreme 
graciousness. “I assure you I have no doubt whatever 
on that subject.” 

“Then may I hope ” cried Alwyne, eagerly; but 

Mrs. Vernon made a little negative gesture which stopped 
him in mid-sentence. 

Mrs. Vernon had, when she willed it, a very charming 
manner, and now she availed herself of it to the utmost. 

“ I want you to believe, ” she said, almost caressingly, for 
his good looks and eager manner were eminently pleasing to 
her— “I want you to believe that I should like iiothing 
better than to accept you as my daughter’s husband, that 
all I know and have seen of you is entirely satisfactory to 
me, but that there are reasons, which have no reference of 
any kind to yourself, which make it impossible for me to 
consent to your engagement to her at present. ’ ’ 

A momentary silence ! then Alwyne, looking at her with 
wide-open eyes, said: 


ONCE AGAIN. 


82 


‘‘ You will surely if such is the case, not object to tell- 
ing me what those reasons are?'’ 

Mrs. Vernon answered, with evident emotion: 

“ It is most natural that you should ask; under the cir 
cumstances, you have every right to ask ; and it makes me 
quite unhappy to think that it is utterly impossible for me 
to give you a straightforward answer. Do, ” looking almost 
piteously at him, ‘ ‘ do try and have faith in me, and believe 
that I would not willingly put any obstacle between you 
and Dulcie.” 

Alwyne’s heart grew cold. He doubted Mrs. Vernon; if 
there had really been any sufficient obstacle, Dulcie would 
not so readily jfiave accepted him. He spoke with an air 
of injury. 

“May I ask if Miss Vernon is aware of the obstacle of 
which you speak?” 

It suddenly occurred to him that somewhere, in England 
or elsewhere, there might be a suitor whom this scheming 
mother cqnsidered more advantageous than himself, and 
whom she had hopes of entrapping. 

Mrs. Vernon hesitated, then, after a pause, answered: 

“She is not altogether aware of it.” 

Alwyne’s temper rose. 

“It "is not very satisfactory,” he answered, “to here- 
fused without a reason. And I must say I consider it most 
unfair, not to say humiliating, to me. You say you have 
no personal objection to me, and yet you refuse" me^ I can 
only imagine there must be some other man in^the case 
whom you think more desirable. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vernon gave a faintly-audible groan. More desir 
able ! gracious heavens ! ^ 

“ Indeed there is not!” she replied, with emphasis. 

“There is no other man in the case?” uttered Alwyne, 
with a keen glance, his suspicions not being entirely al- 
layed. 

Mrs. Vernon objected to telling a deliberate lie. 

‘ ‘ There are circumstances, ’ ’ she said, avoiding his gaze, 

‘ ‘ that make it impossible for me to entertain your pro- 
posal now, but they may be removed. If I could, I would 
gladly explain everything to you. Believe me, I quite un- 
derstand your vexation, and even your doubts of me, but 
at the same time it is out of my power, at this moment, to 
be more explicit.” 

Alwyne was baffled and furious. What more was there 
for him to say? 

“Will you allow me another interview with your 
daughter?” he asked, and, to his surprise, Mrs. Vernon 
answered : 


ONCE AGATN\ 


83 


“Certainly. If you will come back in half an hour, 
you shall see her. ’ ’ 

“And you will not compel her inclinations?” he inquired, 
with a mistrustful look. 

‘ ‘ I will not. I will simply tell her the reason which I 
cannot at present tell you, and she shall then give you her 
answer. ’ ’ 

Alwyne took his hat and went moodily away, full of 
anger and distrust. Still, it would go hard with him if 
he did not get the truth out of his darling, ingenuous 
Dulcie. 

The instant he left the room, Mrs. Vernon went again in 
search of her daughter, and this time successfully. 

Dulcie was looking very nervous and ill at ease, nor was 
her mind reassured when she caught sight of the angry ex • 
pression on her mother’s face. Mrs. Vernon felt very bit- 
ter against the girl, and could not resist the taunt that rose 
to her lips. 

“You have a very constant heart, I must say, and your 
love must be extremely valuable, when, after eloping 
with and marrying one man, you are ready to receive 
the declaration of another almost immediately after- 
ward!” 

Dulcie trembled and turned very white. Somehow she 
had expected her mother’s assistance and co-operation in 
this affair with Alwyne. 

“You have placed me in a delightful position in sending 
Mr. Temple to propose to me for you.” 

“I thought ” murmured Dulcie, then suddenly broke 

down and hid her face in her hands. 

Mrs. Vernon made a supreme effort to control herself. 
If she gave the rein to the anger which was boiling in her, 
she was aware that she would be tempted into some im- 
prudence of speech and would foil her own designs. 

After a silence of a minute, which it took her to suppress 
her feelings, she said, quietly : 

“ You thought you were free from the consequences of 
your folly. I have made inquiries, and am by no means 
sure that such is the case. If Mr. Trevor recovers, it is 
quite possible that he may endeavor to prove the legality 
of the marriage. At all events, he may cause us a great 
deal of trouble and unpleasantness, and you will probably 
see that to accept any one else under such circumstances is 
entirely out of the question. It is impossible to tell the 
truth to Mr. Temple, who, in his indignation, would prob- 
ably make the whole story public, and it is hardly likely 
that if he knew it he would wish to marry you. Still, Mr. 
Trevor may not recover; the story may never be known; 
and then it would be quite possible for you to marry Mr, 


84 


ONCE AGAIN, 


Temple. He is coming to see you in half an hour, as he 
declines to believe in an obstacle which 1 cannot explain to 
him : so I will leave you to think over what you mean to 
say to him. As you have brought this dilemma on your- 
self, you must get out of it as best you can. ’ ’ 

Oh,” sobbed DuLne, in terror, “I cannot, I will not see 
him! Oh, mamma, pray don’t be so cruel! What can I 
do? what can I say?” 

“Say anything, except that you went out of your 
mother’s house and were clandestinely married at a regis- 
try office,” answered Mrs. Vernon, pitilessly. “See him 
you must and shall, and you are at liberty to tell him any 
story you please. I shall not permit myself to be made a 
scapegoat of by you.” 

Sh(? went out and left Dulcie alone, crushed by the awful 
retribution that had fallen upon her. She had never in 
her life acted or decided anything for herself; until her 
meeting with Noel, her mother had commanded and ar- 
ranged, and she had obeyed 'with blind docility; then, 
when Noel gained influence over her, his will had been her 
law. Eesponsibility was to her the most terrible thing in 
the world. She shrank shuddering from the thought of 
meeting Alwyne now — of having to explain or try to ex- 
plain matters to him. For wffiat could she say? She 
would rather die than let him know the awful truth of 
which she was so bitterly ashamed. The security into 
which she had been lulled of late received a rude shock 
from her mother’s words. Noel might give trouble, and 
might try to prove the legality of the marriage ! To be the 
wife of a poor man no longer seemed an enviable, delight- 
ful lot in her eyes; she was not aw-are that at twenty-one, 
or on her marriage sanctioned by the court, she would 
come into a comfortable little fortune of her own. 

She was half minded to put on her hat and rush from the 
hotel to avoid the dreaded interview, but the idea occurred 
to her that her mother would probably be on the watch 
against her escape, or that, worse still, she might run 
straight into the arms of Alwyne, who would not be far off. 
There was only one thing for it— to throw herself upon the 
mercy of her mother, who was so strong and so clever, and 
who never had any difficulty about knowing what to do. 
Hastily she dried her tears, bathed her eyes, and ran to the 
sitting-room. 

“Mamma,” she cried, flinging herself on her knees beside 
her mother, “ I implore you not to be unkind to me. Oh, 
do— do tell me what to say ! I will say anything you wish, 
but 1 cannot think for myself.” 

]\Irs. Vernon was slightly mollified. 

'‘ It is simple enough,” she said. ‘'You must say that 


ONCE AGAIN. 


85 


you cannot accept him at present, and that you cannot now 
explain to him why, but that you hope he will remain your 
friend. He will of course try every persuasion in his power 
to get the truth from you ; but that I think I can rely on 
your not telling him. ’ ’ 

“ Mamma,” pleaded Dulcie, “ must I see him? Oh, dear 
mamma, will you not see him again instead? Pray, pray 
do, and I will never disobey you again !” In her cowardice 
she would have promised anything. 

“No, thank you, my dear,” returned Mrs. Vernon, dryly. 
“ I h^ve gone through one interview with Mr. Temple, and 
that is enough for me. Besides, I promised that you should 
see him ; and you must. ’ ’ 

Dulcie sat on the floor, looking the image of despair. 

There came a knock at the door. A waiter announced 
Mr. Temple. Dulcie sprung to her feet, blushing like a 
carnation, and Mrs. Vernon, without a word, left the room, 
and the lovers together. 

Alwyne’s eyes flashed with pleasure. He advanced 
swiftly, and with one hand took Dulcie’ s and put the other 
round her. But she drew back frightened. Good heavens ! 
if she were really Noel’s wife, it would be a crime to receive 
such attentions from another man. 

“No, no,” she gasped; but he, being strong and willful, 
held her with gentle force and kissed her whether she would 
or no. 

‘ ‘ Now, darling, ’ ’ he cried, ‘ ‘ tell me all about everything !’ ’ 
for, now that she was here, within his grasp, he made light 
in his heart of any obstacle. 

Dulcie trembled, and wished the floor would open and 
swallow her. 

“No, really,” she expostulated, “you must not; indeed 
you must not. Please do not. ’ ’ 

Whereupon Alwyne released her, thinking that modesty 
was delightful in theory, but a confounded nuisance in 
practice. 

“ It is quite true what mamma told you,” she faltered. 
“ I did not know before, but, but ” 

“ Well,” said Alwyne, “but you at all events, my dar 
ling, will tell me why. I know,” tenderly taking her 
hand, “ that you are not indifferent to me; you would not 
willingly malre me wretched. Tell me, sweet love, ’’ .gen- 
tly, “what can there possibly be that you need mind tell 
ing me. Don’t you know that I adore you?” 

For all answer to his entreaty, Dulcie hid her face in 
her hands and wept bitterly. 

For so impetuous and self-willed a young man, Alwyne 
behaved with great forbearance. He drew her hands gen- 
tly from her face, he kissed away the tears that streamed 


B6 


ONCK AGAIN, 


from her eyes, and was as gentle and tender as any womari 
could have been. Dulcie made no resistance now ; her nat- 
ural weakness took refuge in his strength : she submitted, 
and wished for nothing better than to shelter herself in 
this new rock of defense. 

If only there were no awful reason to be given ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

Alwyne had felt certain that the gentle and yielding 
Dulcie would not be able to keep the truth from him ; but 
he found it just as impossible to get a definite answer from 
her as from her mother. 

‘ ‘ At least, ’ ’ he cried, his patience presently wearing to an 
end, “ at least tell me one thing. Is there any other man 
whom your mother wants you to marry ?” 

“ No,” answered Dulcie, truthfully enough. 

“Will you swear that ?” he said. 

“ Yes,” she replied. 

Alwyne got up and walked to the window in high per- 
plexity. Several ideas passed rapidly through his mind, 
none of which, however, seemed to him sufficiently plausi- 
ble. A reason which Dulcie had not known yesterday, but 
the force of which she recognized the moment she learned 
it from hpr mother, and the absolute necessity for secrecy 
in the matter ! 

There was no other man in the case ! Then, with a view 
to allaying his latest suspicion, he came back, and said, 
gently: 

‘ ‘ Can you never give me any hope that you will be my 
wife ?” 

Dulcie hesitated. 

“I may,” she faltered, “if you will only wait. Oh, if 
you would only be a little patient, all may come right!” 

Was ever a man placed in so perplexing, so maddening a 
situation? If Alwyne had not been so much in love, he 
would have been very angry; but this unexpected re- 
sistance and opposition increased his passion, and as he 
looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, that was not dis- 
figured by crying, as most women’s faces are, he felt that 
he would put up with a great deal to win her. 

“It is awfully hard on me, ’ ’ he said ; then, bending 
over her, ‘ ‘ Tell me, darling, that you really love me, that 
you will some day be mine, and then I will try to be pa- 
tient.” 

Any hankering that Dulcie may have ever entertained 
after a romantic situation must have been gratified to the 
full at this moment. Pleasure and fear were mingled in 
exact proportion— pleasure at the love she inspired, fear at 


ONCE AGAIN 


8 ^ 


the thought that she might be committing a crime in 
listening to the avowal of it. Then she shuddered to re- 
member that she was, perhaps, the wife of a decrepit in- 
valid — an imbecile; and she glanced up at Alwyne’s 
straight figure and fine features glowing with passion. 
Romantic situations are not always delightful to the 
actors who take part in them. 

Dulcie did not answer his entreaty in so many words, 
but there was nothing in her manner or behavior that for- 
bade him to hope. 

“ But,” he said, presently, “what is to happen now? Am 
I not to be allowed to seeyou or write to you? How long am 
I to be kept on tenter-hooks?” And here his natural irrita- 
bility came to the front. 

“It depends oh mamma,” answered Dulcie, disingenu- 
ously. 

A brilliant idea came to Alwyne. 

“My darling,” he cried, “ why should not you and I defy 
your mother and go off and get married without her know- 
ing anything about it?” 

“No, no,” said Dulcie, shuddering. 

It was a horrible coincidence that he, too, should make 
this proposition. 

The door opened, and Mrs. Vernon reappeared on the 
scene. The young people had had quite time enough, she 
thought, to say all they had to say, and she felt the deepest 
distrust of Dulcie. Heaven alone knew what folly she was 
capable of ! It would be necessary, she reflected, for her to 
have a few more words with Alwyne, and, unpleasant as it 
was, the duty must not be shirked. 

“ I hope,” she said gently to him, “ you are satisfied that 
my behavior is not influenced by any m^re arbitrary feel- 
ing.” Then, as he was stifliy silent, she continued, “ There 
are family reasons which render it imperative that I should 
be silent for a certain time. As soon as I am able to give 
you an explanation, I shall do so, if you still desire it. 
You must remember that I have not given you any en- 
couragement to make advances to my daughter, but, on 
the contrary, the moment I saw an inclination on your 
part for her society, I did my best to keep you from being 
alone with her.” 

Alwyne preserved his hostile manner. 

“ My position is a most unpleasant one,” he said. “I 
am neither refused nor accepted. I am simply put off 
with what I must say seem to me very unreasonable ex- 
cuses. I love your daughter, and have no intention of giv- 
ing her up as long as she cares for me. Am I to be allowed 
to see her, or may I ask what your intentions on the sub- 
ject are?” 


88 


ONCE AGAIN 


“If you continue to see her,-’ answered Mrs. Vernon, 
with determination, “it must be only as any ordinary 
friend might. I warn you that I shall not permit you to 
be alone in her company after to-day. And, if you will 
take my advice, you will leave Nice and will not approach 
us again until a time, if it should ever come, when we are 
able to welcome you as you desire.” 

Alwyne’s eyes blazed, his temper was getting the better 
of him. He turned to Dulcie. 

“Do you agree to this?” he said in a voice which he had 
the utmost difficulty in controlling. 

Dulcie shivered, and looked down on the ground. 

“Do you?” he reiterated, his voice getting still more 
beyond him. 

“Oh,” she cried, terrified at his tone, looking from him 
to her mother, and not reassured by what she saw in either 
face, “ we must do what mamma thinks right.” 

‘ ' Then of course, ’ ’ said Alwyne, turning suddenly from 
fire to ice, “there is nothing more for me to say.” 

And, taking his hat and making a gesture of stiff saluta- 
tion, he left the room. 

Mrs. Vernon reflected with some vindictiveness that it 
would be an excellent punishment for Dulcie to be handed 
over to a husband with a temper like Alwyne’s. 

Then, whilst Dulcie wept helplessly, she sat down and 
penned a telegram to her lawyer: 

“ What news of invalid?” 

In the course of the afternoon she received an answer: 

“Still in apathetic state. Eemoved from hospital by 
friends yesterday. ’ ’ 

^ 4: :{c 

As Alwyne was rushing frantically up the hotel stair- 
case to his room, he ran into his cousin’s arms. 

“ Halloo,” said Jack. “ Where are you off to?” 

Alwyne stopped short. 

“Isay,” he remarked, with a sudden inspiration, “let 
us go over to Monte Carlo ! I want to get out of this. Do 
come, like a good chap ! I am awfully bothered and wor- 
ried. I believe I shall go mad if I don’t have some one to 
talk to. ’ ’ 

Jack would have demurred, but, seeing that Alwyne was 
really upset, he good naturedly gave way. 

‘ ‘ All right, ’ ’ he said. “I’ll just go and tell them. There’s 
a train in a quarter of an hour. ” 

Poor Jack was himself in a bad way mentally. He was 
hanging on here day by day, and what for? he asked him- 
self miserably. He knew there was no hope for him ; the 
place bored him to distraction ; not once had he seen or 


ONCE AGAIN 


89 


heard anything of Eeine; and yet he felt as though he 
could not tear himself from the spot until he had at all 
events seen her once again. Mrs. Pierpoint, who was to 
have come over the day after his visit to Cannes, had 
caught cold, which confined her for a couple of days to her 
room ; after that, she had been occupied with moving to 
her villa, so Jack had seen nothing of her. He had read 
Eeine’ s poems over and over again; he had possessed him- 
self of her other book, and in turn his soul was vexed and 
fascinated over the pages, and he felt unsettled and miser- 
able, as he had never in his life felt before, not even under 
tne infiuence of the passion from which he had manfully 
torn himself free. He was quite in a condition to sym- 
pathize with Alwyne, and as they had the railway-carriage 
to themselves during the short journey, he listened with 
the greatest interest to Alwyne’s tirade of love, disappoint- 
ment, invective. 

What did it — what could it mean? Alwyne cried, over 
and over again. Was ever a man in this world placed in 
such a position? It was enough to drive him to despera- 
tion, to madness? Jack admitted all this. The only com- 
fort he could suggest was that there was no other man in 
the case. 

‘ * But how can we tell?’ ’ cried Alwyne. ‘ ‘ That woman !’ ’ 
loading his desired mother-in-law with opprobrious epi- 
thets, ‘ ‘ is capable of telling any lie— a blanked intriguing 
old cat ! And that dear little innocent thing is so shy, so 
sensitive, and so easily frightened ; she is under her 
mother’s thumb to such a degree that she could terrify her 
into swearing anything. Why, if and Alwyne dwelt 
with conscious pride on the I, ‘ ‘ could not get anything out 
of her, you may take your oath how crushed she is ! My 
belief is that there is another man — some fellow with a 
title or something or other — she thinks there’s a chance of 
getting hold of. Perhaps ’’—lashing himself into a rage— 

he’s coming out here, and then, if he don’t propose, she 
may fall back upon me. Why, man alive, what other 
reason can there be?” 

Jack was unable to suggest any. 

‘Htis very mysterious, certainly,” he said, “and mys- 
teries are exceedingly disagreeable ; but then, ’ ’ and his own 
heart sank as he said it, “you see, it isn'^t as if you were 
utterly without hope.” 

“ I don’t know what to be at I” cried Alwyne. “ This sort 
of thing plays the devil with one. To go on seeing the girl 
day after day, aiid never to get a chance of being alone with 
her, will drive me mad. And yet I feel as if I can't tear 
myself away.” 

How well poor Jack could sympathize with him.’ 


90 


ONCE AGAIN. 


“ And the first time in my life I ever wanted to marry!” 
Alwyne went on, desperately. “ Why, this time last week 
I’d have laid you a thousand to ten against the possibility 
of such a thing happening. You know, Jack, how I 
loathed the idea.” 

“I suppose,” replied Jack, “ that if one likes a woman in 
the right sort of way, and she is free, marrying her is the 
thing one does think of.” 

The train pulled up. The young men jumped out. A 
moment later Jack’s heart was in his mouth, and his face 
was aflame, for there, in the act of alighting from a rail- 
way-carriage, was Mrs. Chandos. 

He rushed eagerly forward to her assistance. To his de- 
light, she was only accompanied by another lady, to whom 
she at once introduced him. Alwyne was already ac- 
quainted with her friend. 

Mrs. Chandos greeted Jack so kindly that a wild happi- 
ness took possession of him. He would think, she said, 
smiling, that she lived at Monte Carlo ; but, in reality, this 
was only her second visit this season, and she was only 
here now because it was such a lovely day, and Mrs. Her- 
bert had insisted on coming. 

Mrs. Herbert joined in the conversation. 

“ I felt the want of a little excitement,” she said, and 
I have brought a few louis to gamble with. Heine is 
shocked: she never gambles: she will sit on the terrace 
and look at the view whilst I lose my money.” 

Mrs. Herbert was a tall, fair, delicate- looking woman, 
with a distinguished air and a pleasant voice, apparently 
some ten years older than Heine. 

“ Mrs. Herbert,” said Alwyne, addressing himself to her, 
“I am sure you have not breakfasted. Will you 2ftid 
Mrs. Chandos do us the honor of breakfasting with us first? 
and then w^e will go and enjoy a gamble. I also have 
brought a little money to dispose of.” 

“ I am dying of hunger,” she answered pleasantly, “and 
it would be very nice to have a table together.” 

By which she intended to convey to him that, though she 
and her friend would lunch in their company, she did not 
intend to be their guests. 

Alwyne called a carriage, put the ladies into it, and he 
and Jack walked up through the grounds and arrived in 
time to receive them at the hotel. 

“This is great luck,” exclaimed Alwyne to his cousin. 
“ I shall see whether I can’t get something out of Mrs. 
Chandos. You, Jack, like a good fellow, take Mrs. Herbert 
off; you will find her an awfully nice woman.” 

Jack’s face fell about two inches. This was indeed a 
severe test of friendship. To take off the nicest woman iix 


ONCE AGAIN 


91 


the world and to leave Reine to another man seemed an 
unbearable hardship. Alwyne, engrossed though he was 
with himself, could not fail to remark the deep chagrin 
written on every line of Jack’s countenance. 

“ I say, old chap, he said, “ jou must really remember 
how immensely important this is to me — almost a matter 
of life and death, you know. I promise you shall have 
your chance afterward ; only let me get Mrs. Chandos alone 
for half an hour.” 

Nothing could have been cheerier than this little party 
of four. Mrs. Herbert and Reine had the pleasing effect 
of bringing out each other’s liveliest and brightest qualities 
in public. Many women can only be gay and vivacious at 
the expense of making a noise and attracting attention, but 
these two were brilliant examples of how bright and pleas- 
ant ladies may be in an entirely undemonstrative fashion. 
Mrs. Herbert at once took a great fancy to Jack, whose 
frank manner and kindly face impressed her agreeably, 
and it was not five minutes before she was perfectly aware 
of what he imagined to be a secret tightly locked in his own 
breast. She resolved to help him, for, although she was 
herself a widow devoutly thankful for her freedom and 
keenly alive to its advantages, she had, as Reine said, an 
absurd notion that every other woman would be the better 
for having a husband. 

If Jack had been able to think of anything or any one 
but Reine, he would doubtless have at once reciprocated 
her good feeling ; but during luncheon he could scarcely 
take his eyes from Mrs. Chandos, and Alwyne, remember- 
ing that he was going to carry off the apple of his cousin's 
eye presently, devoted himself to Mrs. Herbert. And, 
truth to tell, if it had not been for his eagerness to elicit 
something bearing on his own affairs from Reine, he would 
have preferred the society of the other lady. She was al- 
ways such good company and so pleasant ; she never did or 
said anything to wound the amour-propre of any man, un 
less he ventured on a liberty of speech, and that was a very 
rare event. 

It was with great reluctance, although his good breeding 
prevented him from giving evidence of it, that when, after 
luncheon, they adjourned to the Casino, Jack fell behind 
Mrs. Herbert as Alwyne led the way with her friend. But 
ere long he was tolerably reconciled to his fate, for his com- 
panion adroitly broached the subject that was so near his 
heart, and then, professing surprise at his knowing so little 
of Cannes, raised him to a seventh heaven by proposing 
that she and Mrs. Chandos should make him better ac- 
quainted with it. 

Meantime, Alwyne had conducted his companion to a 


92 


ONCE AGAIN 


sheltered spot in the gardens, and was proceeding to con- 
fide in her. For he had not the gift of reticence, and, if a 
thing engrossed his thoughts, insisted on talking of it ad 
nauseam to any one to whom he chose for the moment to 
unbosom himself. 

Reine listened with no little surprise. She did not per- 
mit the feeling to show itself in her face or manner ; these 
were both sympathetic and interested as she gave ear to 
the outburst of Alwyne’s passion, perplexity, and despair. 
But she wondered secretly how her aunt could for a mo- 
ment have permitted him to hope under the circumstances — 
have allowed him to approach Dulcie with words of love 
whilst she was another man’s ‘wife. It then occurred to 
her that Mrs. Vernon might possibly have had tidings of 
the husband’s death, either actual or imminent; indeed, 
that was the only way in which she could reconcile to her- 
self her aunt’s conduct in the matter. Even then she 
could not thoroughly approve. 

It was evident that Alwyne hoped to extract some clew 
to the secret from her, but, whilst listening with every 
mark of sympathy to his recital, she disclaimed all knowl- 
edge of her aunt’s reasons and objections, and confined her- 
self entirely to speaking in kind and affectionate ' terms of 
Dulcie. Alwyne, bafiled in the most important particular, 
still derived no little comfort and pleasure from talking 
about the object of his affections. He went so far as to 
implore Mrs. Chandos’ good offices in his behalf. She 
asked him, smiling, why he should want any assistance 
when he had so much to recommend him? He was so 
much pleasanter in the humble phase of non-accepted 
suitor than she had ever before seen him, that Reine was 
inclined to revoke her pre viou ^ judgment of him. And 
Alwyne, who had up to this time been rather spiteful and 
ill-disposed toward her, vowed that she was really a charm- 
ing woman, and, having talked to her about himself un- 
weariedly for the space of an hour; began to reflect that 
perhaps he ought to let Jack have a turn, and assented to 
his companion’s proposal that they should go and look for 
the other members of the party. 

Mrs. Herbert and Jack were still at the tables. They 
had been playing with varying success, and were now a 
little to the good. Alwyne made his venture, won; staked 
again, won ; again, won ; again, lost ; doubled his stake, and 
ended by losing. 

The ladies expressed a wish to go to the concert-room, 
and thither they repaired, Alwyne now devoting himself 
to Mrs. Herbert. A strange shyness had come over Jack 
— an unjust sense of self -depreciation. He felt that Reine 
must think him a fool and be bored by him. But that lady 


AGAW. 93 

was in an excellenc nnmor, and talked gayly to him in the 
intervals between the music, and his diffidence gave way to 
a feeling of supreme happiness. His tongue was unloosed ; 
he was no longer shy and silent ; the world’s face seemed to 
have changed when they emerged into the sunshine : if this 
was not Paradise, he wanted no fairer one. 

When, in the train, Mrs. Herbert invited the young men 
to lunch with them next day. Peine coi'dially seconded the 
invitation. Jack accepted joyfully, Alwyne with reserve. 
He was not sure in his own heart that he could tear himself 
away from Dulcie. For, so far from having any intention 
of leaving Nice, he had resolved that he would stay near 
his beloved and see her and fair play at the same time. 

At dinner that evening he sat opposite Dulcie, and his 
eyes were so full of expressive fire, and his glances at her 
pretty face so long and ardent, that Mrs. Vernon, who sat 
on thorns lest his very marked conduct should excite atten- 
tion, took a sudden resolve. As they left the dining-room, 
Mrs. Chester joined her, and Alwyne was enabled to ap- 
proach Dulcie ; but, by a sudden turn of the head, the dis- 
tracted mother saw him put a note into her hand. The 
moment Mrs. Vernon reached their sitting-room, having 
declined Mrs. Chester’s pressing invitation to join their 
party both for herself and Dulcie, she turned to her daugh- 
ter and said, in a tone that frightened the girl ; 

“ Read Mr. Temple’s letter at once!” 

Dulcie demurred, but Mrs. Vernon insisted, almost with 
violence, and Dulcie gave in and read it tremblingly. 

Her mother watched her sternly. 

”It is, I presume, a love-letter. No, do not be afraid,” 
as Dulcie instinctively put it behind her back. “ I have no 
wish to see it. I have only this to say to you: Mr. 
Trevor is alive and likely to live, and he is your husband.” 

Then, whilst Dulcie, white as death, sank half fainting 
on the sofa, Mrs. Vernon passionately seized her desk, and 
wrote on a sheet of paper : 

“Either you, or I and my daughter, leave Nice to-mor- 
row. If I find in the morning that you are still here, we 
go by the afternoon train. ’ ’ 

She directed it to “ Alwyne Temple, Esq.,” and ringing 
the bell, gave it to the waiter to be delivered at once. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Mrs. Herbert and Reine had dined, and were drinking 
coffee in the pretty salon of their villa. Mrs. Herbert was • 
lying on a couch drawn toward the cheerful wood fire, and 
Reine sat half buried in a big chair, with her feet reposing 
cn a footstool and warming at the blaze. She seemed en- 


94 


ONCE AGAIN 


grossed with her thoughts, as indeed she was. A strong 
sense of honor w^as one of her chief attributes, and she was 
at a loss to understand how her aunt, for whom she had a 
certain respect and esteem, could have acted toward 
Alwyne Temple in so disingenuous a manner. Mrs. Her 
bel t’s voice broke in upon her reflections. 

* My love,” it said, “ what is your busy brain cogitating 
i'o deeply about?” 

Reine looked up and smiled. 

” It is quite at your service, if you have any ideas to sug 
gest to it. ” 

‘‘ Only quite trivial ones,” replied her friend. “ I think 
we had a very pleasant day, and I found our cavaliers most 
agreeable.” 

” Yes,” assented Reine, but without much enthusiasm. 

“Mr. Temple is remarkably handsome,” pursued Mrs. 
Herbert, “but I prefer his cousin. He looks so kind and 
good-tempered.” 

‘ ‘ Alwyne Temple has improved, I think, ’ ’ observd Reine. 
“ I never liked him so well as to-day. He was much less 
self-assertive than usual. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ By the way, what were he and you so engrossed in , 
and where did you disappear to?” 

Mrs. Chandos had few secrets from her friend, with 
whom she lived on terms of affectionate intimacy, so she 
did not hesitate to tell her about Alwyne’s attraction to her 
cousin, though she gave.no hint of Dulcie’s secret. 

“ Between ourselves, strictly between ourselves, Mia, he 
has fallen in love with my pretty cousin, and, as he is a 
young gentleman of an impetuous disposition, he is dread- 
fully perturbed because he is not received by my aunt with 
open arms.” 

‘ ‘ But, my love, he has lots of money, ’ ’ exclaimed Mrs. 
Herbert. “ Why is he not received with open arms?” 

“Really, Mia,” returned Reine, with a shade of impa- 
tience, ‘ ‘ you are just like every other woman. If a man 
has money, there is no consideration of any possible sort or 
kind of sufficient importance to stand in his way.” 

“ After all,” smiled Mrs. Herbert, with an apologetic lit- 
tle air, ‘ ‘ you know, poetess though you are, that that is a 
very big consideration. Comfort and luxury are by no 
means words of empty sound in your ears, my love.” 

“Oh, no doubt everything is easier to be endured by 
means of money,” returned Reine; “ but do you think if I 
were given the choice of happiness or money, I should 
hesitate.” 

“There is no such thing as happiness,” replied Mrs. 
Herbert, didactically: “as the old conundrum says, the 
only place where it is always to be found is in the diction- 


ONCE AGAIN 


95 


ary. Our life is made up of toleration, endurance, with 
occasional flashes of hope and pleasure and frequent long 
periods of suffering and misery. Physical comfort makes 
toleration easier than anything else ; money gives physi- 
cal comfort. But, after all, why is this rich and handsome 
young man not received with open arms? Is your aunt 
ambitious? is she bent on a title?” 

“I have not seen her,” replied Reine, “since the day 
when she and Dulcie first made his acquaintance. You re- 
member, Mia, I told you of the meeting.” 

“ But is he refused for good and all ?” 

“He was evidently not accepted. And nothing in the 
world could be so calculated to increase his devotion as a 
little opposition.” 

“ Is that why it is done, do you think ?” 

“ I must hear what my aunt says,” returned Reine, eva- 
sively. “I think of going over to Nice again before the 
end of the week. ’ ’ 

“Not to stay!” exclaimed her friend. “I really won’t 
have you go away again to stay ! I am wretched without 
you, and your aunt cannot want vou half as much as I 
do ” 

“No, only for the day,” said Reine. 

Mrs. Herbert gave a sigh of relief. 

“ That is all right,” she said. “ Reine, my dear, do you 
know I think Sir John Chester has fallen in love with 
you?” 

“Do you?” observed Reine, indifferently. “You gener- 
ally think that of every man.” 

‘ ‘ I may be forgiven if I do, since it not unf requently hap- 
pens. But I approve of Sir John much more than of most 
of your suitors. ’ ’ 

“Have you ascertained, Mia,” asked her friend, with 
slightly -veiled sarcasm, “ that he has money enough to in- 
sure toleration of life — and of himself?” 

“ How dare you speak in that tone to me?” laughed Mrs. 
Herbert. “You know it is quite impossible for you to 
crush me as you do impertinent acquaintances who take 
liberties.” 

“You are too frail to be crushed,” answered Reine, with 
a smile. 

“ Thanks for your magnanimity. But now what do you 
think of him yourself?” 

‘ ‘ I have not thought much about him at present, ’ ’ said 
Reine. “ But to please you ” —assuming an air of reflec- 
tion— “I will. I think ’’—pausing and appearing to delib- 
erate— “ he looks very English, very clean, very good-tem- 
pered. He has beautiful teeth. And— ah, yes, by the 
way, he behaves charmingly to his mother and to that 


96 


OXCE AGAIN. 


poor little invalid sister. Yes, Mia, I think he is an ex- 
cellent type of a young English sportsman. I feel sure he 
is a straight rider and a good siiot, and I dare say plays 
cricket and lawn- tennis, and is good all round at country 
pursuits. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Herbert surveyed her friend critically. 

“ How heartless you are!” she said. 

“ I wish I were!” returned Heine, with a profound sigh. 

‘ ‘ Take courage ; you will be in time, ’ ’ smiled Mrs. Her 
bert, changing her tone to a light one, “and when that 
time comes you will arrive at the nearest approach possible 
to happiness. I, thank Heaven, have worn my heart out. 
It used to give me an immense deal of trouble. For twenty 
years — from fifteen to thirty* five — it was the curse of my 
life. I was always loving, or wanting to love, and, when I 
did, consuming and fretting myself to a shadow about the 
object or fancied object of my affection. Now,” gayly, 
“my heart has completely frittered itself away. I could 
not love if Jupiter himself put on his most seductive shape 
to fascinate me. No human being is necessary to my ex- 
istence ; there is no one whom I could not do without, ex- 
cept,” laughing, “you, my love, whilst I am here. The 
real compensation of growing old is, as far as my experi- 
ence goes, the fading of those turbulent emotions that were 
the joy and the despair of one’s youth. I am not easily 
disappointed, because I expect nothing; pleasure- seeking 
has become an intolerable bore to me ; the society of a few 
people I like; fresh air, beautiful scenery, are the only 
things I care for, and, if I had but a digestion and an appe- 
tite worth dignifying by the name and could enjoy the 
pleasures of the table, I should look upon old age as an un- 
mitigated boon.” 

“How you talk, Mia!” interrupted Heine. “Any one 
would think you were seventy.” 

“I am a hundred and seventy,” replied Mrs. Herbert, 
“and I watch the passions and griefs and loves of you 
young people from afar, wdth a sort of amused wonder that 
you can attach so much importance to them, and with total 
oblivion of the fact that I was ever a victim to the same 
passions myself. It is a never-ending marvel to me that 
years can so entirely change our views on almost every sub- 
ject ; the change, they tell us, th£\t is worked in our con- 
stitutions is as nothing to it. Fifteen years ago I was 
excitable, jealous, exacting, ambitious, with the most pro- 
nounced ideas on almost every subject ; now I am calm, 
tolerant, indifferent, unprejudiced, and absolutely heedless 
of social ads'ancement. I can see that there are two sides 
to every question, and so much to be said on both that it is 
easier to let the whole matter slide than to attempt to ar- 


ONCE AGAIN 


97 


rive at an absolute conclusion about it. I u ed to rebel 
against what I thought the injustice and cruelty of life; I 
insisted on prying into the motives and reasons of things, 
and was deeply indignant because satisfactory answers 
were not presented to my intelligence. I now take refuge 
in the doctrine of the Unknowable, and have left off asking 
questions. No one can explain to me the great enigma of 
life and suffering. I listen to the various arguments with 
which people who think they know attempt from time to 
time to convince me. I never contradict them ; I smile and 
let them imagine they have produced their effect, but each 
successive argument makes me more certain that the mys- 
tery is unknown and unknowable. I no longer beat my 
wings against the bars of my cage ; I doze on my perch and 
hail the end with tolerable composure. I have even given 
up asking, except once now and then when I am more ill 
or suffering than usual, ‘What is the good of anything?’ 
If good there is, we shall know it some day ; if we are only 
puppets of blind force, why, then we shall have fulfilled our 
purpose, and the end will have come, and there will be no 
more need for asking questions.” 

Reine sat upright in her chair, with signs of strong emo- 
tion in her expressive face. 

“Ah, Mia,” she exclaimed, “it is all very well for you 
to talk ; you are fortunate to have arrived at such a con- 
tented frame of mind ; but what about those who do rebel, 
who cannot help rebelling, because they feel that they 
have been deluded and cheated? that high ideas, thoughts, 
aspirations, have been given them which they can never 
realize? that they are mocked and disappointed through 
the very instinct which seemed highest and purest?” 

“My dear child,” replied Mrs. Herbert, “it is a great 
pity that you ever met Henry Bertram. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The best friend I ever had or ever shall have, ’ ’ inter- 
rupted Reine, warmly. 

“ The worst as a ‘ philosopher and guide.’ His effect on 
you morally was as that of a hon vwant, who gives the 
prescription that has cured his gout to a poor man who is 
starving for want of generous food. It would have been 
far better for you, my love, though you won’t agree with 
me, if, when you were suffering from disappointment and 
heart-soreness, you had come across a priest or a religious 
enthusiast, who could have given you something to prop 
up your faltering faith, instead of taking away what slen- 
der support was still left and leaving you to fall prone to 
earth.” 

“ It is far better to know and face the truth, ’ ’ cried Reine, 
impetuously. 

“ But what is truth?” asked Mrs. Herbert. “To my way 


ONCE AGAIN. 


of thinking, utter skeptics like our friend are further from 
it than any one else. Henry is a man, strong mentally and 
physically; he is perpetually occupied ; his digestion is ex- 
cellent; he is devoid of sentiment, therefore his unbelief 
causes him no inconvenience of any kind. He has no men- 
tal weakness, so a personal God is unnecessary to him ; he 
has healthy, honorable instincts which guide his life cor- 
rectly, and enable him to be quite comfortable without re- 
ligion. He thought he was doing you a great kindness, 
w^hen, seeing your mind rent with doubt, trouble, and dis- 
quietude, he tried to tear up what he considered a miserable 
superstition from before your stumbling feet. It was like 
a strong man taking the crutches from a cripple and say 
ing, ‘ See how well I walk. Throw away those wretched 
devices, which are really of no use to you, and walk erect 
and straight as I do.’ ” 

“ But, Mia, you know that you believe in very little your- 
self.” 

“I do not admit that,” returned Mrs. Herbert. “Asa 
matter of fact, I do not know how much or how little I be- 
lieve. I find it best not to continue interrogating myself 
on the subject. If I am content to bow to the unalterable 
power which I acknowledge, and to accept destiny with- 
out questioning, it seems to me as though I may perhaps 
be demonstrating the highest form of faith. But, my love, 
when, in autumn, the creepers that twine themselves 
round a tree gradually and naturally unloose their cling- 
ing arms and drop to earth, it is very different from those 
whose strong tendrils are torn violently away in their 
full flowering-time. You want a counteracting influence. 
You are young— well,” as Eeine shook her head, “let us 
say, comparatively young, for, though six-and-twenty 
seemed very old to me when I was seventeen, I now look 
upon it as the most . charming and fascinating period of a 
woman’s life. From twenty -five to thirty-five a woman 
ought to rule every one she chooses to rule — that is, a 
woman who is clever and charming — a woman like you, 
Eeine. Do you know that the best part of your life is be- 
fore you? Do you know that if you were to love now, to 
love a good, kind, honorable man — we won’t say anything 
about his being very clever — you might still be a happy 
woman, and wdn back your old beliefs, or, at all events, 
the best part of them?” 

And Mrs. Herbert’s gray eyes grew quite eager in their 
expression, and she looked affectionately at Eeine. 

“Love and I are strangers,” answered Eeine, with a 
sigh, sinking back in her chair. “ I could not love now, 
because I could not believe. Perhaps, dear Mia, I shall get 
to your contented frame of mu d some day, and think the 


OjSCE again, 99 

greatest blessing is to feel that no one is necessary to my 
existence.” 

” But, my dear child, I did not feel that at your age, and 
I do not think any one gets to feel it till he has suffered 
great unhappiness and disappointment. The greatest 
source of your happiness now is your imagination ; you live 
in a world of your own, and you want to idealize every one 
with whom you come in contact. Your inclination is to 
believe everything th^t glitters to be gold, and you take it 
as a personal injury that when the test-acid of experience 
is applied it corrodes. You shut your eyes and idealize, 
and when you open them and look at reality it seems 
coarse and brutal. If you were less critical and more dis- 
posed to give the rein to your natural warmth of heart 
and affection, you would be a much happier woman. It is 
of no use at your age and with your nature to try to starve 
your heart. Find some man who is honorable, to be 
trusted, and devoted to you, and don’t insist on idealizing 
him and expecting all sorts of impossible things of him, but 
be content to love him, and, if you must weigh his demer- 
its occasionally, put his good qualities in the other scale, 
and balance the two fairly. Women of your sort were not 
meant to live alone ; sympathy and companionship are ab- 
solute necessities. Why, even I, in spite of all I say,” with 
a sad little smile, ‘ ‘ feel at times that to have some one to 
whom I was necessary, whose life was bound up in mine, 
would be a blessing worth paying a tolerably severe pen- 
alty for. But I do not allow myself to dwell on the idea, 
and immediately proceed to thank Heaven that fortune has 
no hostages of mine, and to tell ’myself that to care for any 
one or anything is to widen the joints of one’s armor and 
let the shafts of misfortune enter and pierce one. You see, 
my love, the great difference between us is that I am re- 
signed to my lot, and probably could not alter it if I wished, 
whereas you are not resigned, and your fate is, humanly 
speaking, in your own hands.”* 

” I wish I had never been born!” said Reine, in a tone of 
the deepest despondency. 

‘ • That is what I have wished all my life, ’ ’ replied Mrs. 
Herbert. ‘ ‘ I could never understand the intense love of 
life which some people have who think ‘ only to live ’ such 
a tremendous boon. Of course there have been times when 
I have been exhilarated by air and sunshine and the pres- 
ence of those I loved into being momentarily glad of life ; 
but the Reeling has been transitory. I dislike the idea of 
dying, because of the mystery and doubt, the fears, mental 
and physical, that surround the act of dying; but to be 
dead always seems desirable to me, and infinitely more 
desirable, as the preacher said, it is never to have been 


ONCE again. 


m 

born at all. There is only one thing that could reconcile 
me to life, and that would be the knowledge that I had 
been of use in my generation ; that I had made others the 
better for me ; that I had prevented a great deal of suffer- 
ing and caused a great deal of happiness. I, like every 
one else, love my own individuality, and should hate to 
change it, but there is one man, whom I do not know and 
never met, with whom I would gladly change places at any 
moment, and that is Lord S . When I think of the in- 

calculable misery he has prevented and ameliorated, the 
amazing amount of good he has done, I say to myself, ‘ A 
life like that is worth living, in spite of any amount of 
personal misfortune, disappointment, or discouragement.’ 
What are the triumphs of the most beautiful woman or 
the greatest statesman compared with these?” 

“Mia, dearest,” interposed Reine, with some anxiety, 
“ you are exciting yourself too much, and will have one 
of your bad nights, I am afraid. ’ ’ 

” Quite true, my little Mentgr. I will be calm.” And 
Mrs. Herbert settled herself back among her cushions. 
“Let us turn to a less exciting theme. How shall we 
amuse our young men to-morrow?” 

“ I think, Mia, it was very rash of you to ask them. I 
fear they will be bored, and I am quite sure we shall.” 

“I am not sure of anything of the sort,” returned her 
friend. “I mean to make myself very agreeable, and, as 
you know, I am extremely fond of good-looking young 
men.” 

“ I beg your pardon, dear Mia. I ought to have remem- 
bered that no one could be bored in your pleasant com- 
pany. I was selfishly thinking of myself ’ ’ 

“ Let us pray for a fine day,” said Mrs. Herbert. “ We 
will have luncheon first, and then take them for a drive ; 
that will get over the afternoon charmingly.” 

‘ ‘ Arrange everything as you please, my dear. ' ’ 

“But you will second me, Reine? you promise not to be 
distraite or disdainful?” 

“Mia, did you ever know me to fail in my duty as 
hostess or part- hostess?” 

“ No, I don’t think I ever did. Now I am going to read 
my book and calm my excited mind,” said Mrs. Herbert; 
“ and I advise you to do the same. It is a good thing to 
exchange one’s own ideas for those of some one else.” 

But Reine leaned back in her chair, and her thoughts 
wandered off to dreamland ; and when she came. back from 
that far country there were tears in her eyes. 


ONCE AGAIN 


101 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Mrs. Vernon’s note was handed to Alwyne in the Ches- 
ters’ sitting-room, where he and Jack had repaired after 
dinner. Mrs. Chester was with Lilah, who had one of her 
headaches. 

As he read, Alwyne’ s face blanched ; then he threw the 
note to his cousin. Jack, having read, looked up sympa- 
thetically. 

‘‘I am awfully sorry,” he said. “I suppose there is 
nothing for it but to go ” 

Alwyne gave vent to his anger in furious and passionate 
language. He heaped invectives on Mrs. Vernon, and 
raved and stormed about the room like a madman. Men 
are not frightened by each other’s violence, and Jack, if a 
trifle disgusted by his cousin’s want of self-control, uttered 
no remonstrance, but waited until he should recover some 
degree of calmness. When Alwyne had partly inveighed 
away his fury, Mrs. Chester came into the room, and, see- 
ing ms handsome face all distraught and perturbed, stopped 
point-blank. 

“ My dear boy,” she exclaimed, kindly, “ what has hap- 
pened V ’ 

Alwyne, nothing loath, poured forth the recital of his 
wrongs. He would have confided them to a perfect stran- 
ger in his present mood. 

Mrs. Chester was a kind woman, and her nephew’s dis- 
tress excited her sympathy at once. She tried to console 
him with the thought that his rejection was only tempo- 
rary, and that perhaps everything would come right in the 
end. But Alwyne, like a spoiled child, passionately refused 
to be consoled, and declared that he had been shamefully 
used, and was the victim of a mercenary, designing, heart- 
less woman who was only waiting to sell that poor, inno- 
cent darling, Dulcie, to a higher bidder. He implored his 
aunt’s mediation. Would she see Mrs. Vernon and try to 
get the truth out of her? When Mrs. Chester demurred, 
and said that she could not possibly interfere in so delicate 
a matter, he grew very angry indeed, swore that every one 
was in league against him, and went out of the room, slam- 
ming the door behind him. 

Jack, though he mentally resented Alwyne’ s rudeness to 
his mother, felt that this was not the time to take notice of 
it, and only remarked apologetically that he was afraid 
Alwyne was terribly cut up and had lost his head a little. 

“ I am sorry for him, of course,” returned Mrs. Chester, 
who had all along been ill-pleased with Alwyne' s atten- 
tions to Dulcie, and perhaps in her heart of hearts felt that 


102 


ONCE AGAIN. 


his sufferings were not wholly undeserved; “but I can 
quite understand that Mrs. Vernon wishes to see and know 
a great deal more of him before trusting her dear child's 
happiness to him. I fear Alwyne will make but a very in- 
different husband, and that any girl who marries him will 
have a great deal to put up with from his violent and un- 
controllable temper. ’ ’ 

“ Dulcie Vernon is a dear, amiable little girl,” said Jack, 
“just the sort to suit him, because she would not oppose 
him. Alwyne is a very good fellow if he is not contra- 
dicted.” 

“ I am afraid she is much too good for him,” replied Mrs. 
Chester. ‘ ‘ I think she will make an excellent wife, and 
deserves a better fate than to become the slave of a selfish, 
tyrannical man. ” 

Mrs. Chester, good and kind as she was, could not help 
showing the soreness she felt, for she had fondly pict- 
ured amiable Dulcie as the happy and fortunate wife of one 
of the kindest and best men in the world— namely, her 
own dear son. 

“ My dear mother, don’t be too hard on the poor chap!” 
urged Jack. “He has alw^ays been rather spoiled, you 
know, and just now he is very hard hit. ’ ’ 

Presently Jack w^ent to seek his cousin, and found him 
sitting in his room with a gloomy expression of face, hav- 
ing passed from the passionate to the melancholy stage. 
After a time he allowed himself to be persuaded to go out 
and smoke a cigar on the promenade, and, having talked 
for an hour and a half about his woes and wrongs, he ar- 
rived at a state of comparative calmness. He would be 
hanged, he said, if he would go right aw^ay. No ; he would 
stop in the neighborhood, if only to aggravate the old 
W'oman and to see fair play. Would Jack swear to tell him 
everything that went on, and to talk to Dulcie about him? 
Jack promised the first part, but averred that he could not 
run the risk of breaking up the friendly relations of the 
party by doing what Mrs. Vernon would be sure to disap- 
prove. Alwyne abused Jack’s selfishness roundly, and de- 
clared his intention of being even with everybody all round 
some day. Jack ventured to ask whether he would go to 
lunch with Mrs. Herbert on the morrow, but he replied 
snappishly that he had no wish to meet Mis. Chandos, who 
was just as mercenary and intriguing as her aunt. No, he 
should go to his sister for the present, and what he would 
do afterward he had not yet made up his mind. 

When, about half-past ten, Jack went back to the sitting- 
room, he found his mother there. Her face wore rather a 
perturbed expression, and had a little unusual tinge of 
color. 


ONCE AGAIN 


103 


‘‘ I thought you would perhaps come in again, my dear,” 
she remarked. ” I have something to say to you. I hope,” 
looking wistfully at him, “ you will not be vexed.” 

An uncomfortable instinct came into Jack’s breast that 
he would be vexed, for he knew there was only one sub- 
ject on which his mother could have anything to say that 
would be unpleasant to him. 

He tried to smile in a gay and unconscious manner. 

‘ ‘ What can you possibly have to say that would vex me, 
mother? Have I not been behaving myself?” 

His mother, contrary to her custom, avoided meeting 
his eyes. 

“I heard you say,” she began, “that you are going to 
Cannes to-morrow. I am afraid that you are going to see 
Mrs. Chandos.” 

Jack colored ; there was a slight stiffness in his tone. 

“ And if I am, my dear mother,” he replied, “I do not 
quite understand why you should be afraid. ’ ’ 

“My dear boy,” cried Mrs. Chester, with visible agita- 
tion, “ I cannot bear to pain you, and yet I feel it my duty 
to speak. Pray do not resent it ; you must know that my 
anxiety only proceeds from love.” 

Jack made no answer— something in his throat choked 
speech— and Mrs. Chester, after a moment’s pause, went 
on: 

‘ ‘ I cannot help seeing that you have fallen in love with 
Mrs. Chandos, in the last few days you have changed so 
much and have looked so harassed ; but to-night, when 
you came from Monte Carlo, you seemed pleased and 
happy, and were so eager about going to Cannes to-mor- 
row. ” 

“Well, mother” — Jack’s voice trembled a little, but he 
looked very steadfastly in his mother’s eyes— “ and if I do 
love Mrs. Chandos?” 

“It would break my heart if you married her !” cried 
Mrs. Chester, with strong agitation. “You know that I 
have no selfish feeling in the matter— that it is no fear of 
losing my home that makes me speak. I should be too glad 
and thankful to see you marry some nice, good girl— I was 
in hopes you might care for ” 

“ Do not speak of any one else,” interrupted Jack, “ but 
tell me what you object to in Mrs. Chandos.” 

“ I have no doubt she is very clever, very fascinating,” 
poor Mrs. Chester hurried on, ‘ ‘ but oh, my dear boy, she 
is not the wife for you. I must tell you that I have read 
her books— I got them in order to see if what I had heard 
was true — and they have shocked me beyond words. It 
is not only the love- verses, which indeed I cannot under- 
stand any woman writing, but what horrifies me infinitely 


10 ^ 


ONCE AGAIN 


more is the utter skepticism she displays. She must be an 
atheist— the most awful thing I can imagine. Oh, my 
dear son, how could you take such a woman to be mistress 
of your house, mother of your children? Think of a house- 
hold presided over by a woman who had no religion, no be- 
lief in God ! think or children brought up no better than 
the poor heathen ! It must be a fearful sin against God to 
marry such a woman ; you would be calling down a terri- 
ble judgment on your head by doing so!” 

His mother's words pierced Jack’s honest heart to the 
core, for some of these ideas which she enunciated with 
such passion and fervor had traversed his own brain, al- 
though his principles Avere very much broader and more 
liberal than hers. Still, he had been brought up in a re- 
ligious and somewhat narrow-minded atmosphere, and 
he had the conviction of most men of the better sort, that 
a woman ought to have a certain amount of piety and 
should bring her children up in the love and fear of God. 
Even men Avho have qutgroAvn what they think of as the 
“superstitions necessary to keep the lower classes in 
order ’ ’ still think it pleasing and right that women should 
go to church, say their prayers, and teach their children 
to do the same. But Jack had not outgrown superstition, 
and had the most conserA^ative ideas of Church as well as 
State; therefore his mother’s Avords made due impression 
upon him, though he endeavored to resist their influence. 

“But, mother,” he said, “neither you nor any one 
else can say that Mrs. Chandos is not as refined, as lady- 
like, as particular in her conversation, as any other 
Avoman, even if unfortunately she has listened to the argu- 
ments of unprincipled men and is not, perhaps— exactly 
religious. There is not,” vehemently, “ the least breath 
against her.” 

“ My dear boy,” cried his mother, “ do not willfully shut 
your eyes to facts 1 Could any right-minded woman have 
Avritten that poetry?” 

‘ ‘ There is always a certain amount of license permitted 
to people Avith poetic imaginations,” returned Jack. 

“ Would you like your wife to have Avritten or to write 
such lines?” persisted his mother. “To my mind, there is 
something very shocking in any expression of passion — of 
— of the passions of the sexes from a woman.” 

Jack Avas silent, because to argue upon such a subject 
with one’s mother, particularly a very religious mother, 
is next to impossible. Mrs. Chester looked down at the 
floor, being also embarrassed by the turn the discussion 
had taken. Jack was the first to speak. 

“I think, mother,” he said, “you may make your mind 
perfectly easy. Mrs. Chandos looks upon me and ti*eats 


ONCE AGAIN 


105 


me very much as she might do an overgrown Eton boy or 
an undergraduate, and would probably laugh in my face if 
I presumed to take the liberty of expressing my feelings 
for her.” 

At this Mrs. Chester naturally fired up. “ I should think 
she would feel very much fiattered and honored,” cried 
the excellent lady. “And,” with an unusual display of 
sarcasm, ‘ ‘ I should be very sorry if you were to propose to 
her on the chance of her refusing you.” 

Like every man who loves, it was intolerable to Jack to 
hear his idol spoken of slightingly. He turned away with 
an angry gesture, then, recovering himself, said, in an agi- 
tated voice, ‘ ‘ Forgive me, mother, but I cannot discuss 
Mrs. Chandos with you.” 

Mrs. Chester cast an agonized glance at him. 

“ Are you going to break my heart?” she said. 

“I hope no one’s heart will be broken,” he answered. 
“As I told you, mother, there is not the very smallest 
chance of Mrs. Chandos giving me a thought. Good- 
night. ’ ’ He approached, kissed her cheek with perhaps a 
shade less of affection than usual, and retreated hastily, 
whilst the poor lady, fearing to add another word, re- 
mained overwhelmed with trouble and anxiety. She felt 
certain that Jack would propose to Mrs. Chandos the next 
day, and she was equally sure that dangerous woman 
would accept him. 

Jack, as he sought his own room, was in no happy 
frame of mind : he had a painful consciousness that Mrs. 
Chandos was perhaps not the woman whom in cold blood 
he would have chosen to marry, but his blood was not 
cold, and he knew that if she hut held up a finger to him 
he would follow wherever it beckoned. 

The next morning the young men started after break- 
fast for Cannes. Jack was to accompany Alwyne to his 
sister’s villa to spend the intervening time between his 
arrival and the hour at which Mrs. Herbert had invited 
him to lunch. 

Belle evinced great pleasure at seeing them. Her hus- 
band had left the night before for Algiers to spend a fort- 
night with an old brother-soldier. But when she per- 
ceived what a very bad frame of mind her brother was in, 
she began to feel doubtful whether his companionship 
would be any great boon, and when he went to look at his 
room, and left her alone with Jack, she hastened to confide 
her doubts to him. 

“ My dear Jack,” she cried, the instant the door closed 
upon him, “I foresee a dreadful time. Alwyne is in one 
of his most detestable moods, and if I have him alone on 
my hands he will drive i>ie to distraction. I know what 


10(5 


ONCE AGAIN. 


he is when he is crossed in love. His temper is too dread' 
fill: he abuses everybody and everything, or else sits and 
looks like a skeleton at a feast. My dearest boy, do, for 
pity’s sake, come and stay here for a few days. For once, 
three will be much better company than two, and if we 
cannot manage him between us we can at all events fall 
back upon each other.” 

A thrill of pleasure shot through Jack’s heart as he 
thought of the delight of being near Mrs. Chandos; but 
then it occurred to him that he had better wait until after 
his visit before he accepted, in case he should see the ad- 
visability of placing the sea between himself and a hopeless 
passion. 

‘ ‘ I shall be delighted to come if I can, ’ ’ he answered ; 
“but I must leave it open until to-morrow, if you don’t 
mind. ’ ’ 

“ Nonsense!” returned Mrs. Pierpoint, bent on her plan; 
‘ ‘ telegraph to your servant to bring your things over to- 
night. I will write to auntie. ” 

But Jack declared that in any case he must go back to 
Nice that night, though, if possible, he would return in the 
morning. 

Belle, with her sharp woman’s wit, made a very shrewd 
guess on what her cousin’s plans hinged, and devoutly 
prayed that his visit might prove satisfactory. The day 
was not one of the typical days of the sunny South. It 
was gloomy ; there vras a bitter wind blowing, and dust- 
storms whirled about in an even more uncomfortable man- 
ner than they do in much-abused England. And when 
Jack arrived at the villa there was a dreadful blow instore 
for him. Mrs. Herbert greeted him in the kindest, most 
cordial manner. But then she hastened to say : 

“I have a very sad piece of news for you. Poor, dear 
Eeine has a frightful headache and is unable to make her 
appearance; but I shall do my very best to entertain you, 
and you must try to put up with my company.” 

Jack felt an awful sinking at his heart: he could not 
even muster up courage enough to make the attempt to 
look cheerful or to say something civil. He was oppressed 
by the idea that the headache was ouly a woman’s excuse, 
and that it was Mrs. Chandos’ way of intimating to him 
that his society was unwelcome to her. 

Mrs. Herbert divined his thought in an instant, but had 
too much tact to let him see that she did so. 

“ It is only a pleasure deferred, ’ ’ she said, brightly. ‘ ‘ In 
a day or two you must come over again, if you will, and 
the original programme shall be carried out. ’ ’ 

During luncheon Mrs. Herbert was so bright and cheery 
that Jack’s drooping spirits began to revive. She seemed 


ONCE AGAIN. 


107 


to take it as a matter of course that they were to see a 
good deal of him at the villa, and he found courage to tell 
her that) Mrs. Pierpoint wished him to spend a few days 
with her. 

“I am so glad,” Mrs. Herbert said. “I hope you will, 
and that we shall see you very often. We are two lonely 
women, and we pretend to like solitude and to be unso- 
ciable, but I really believe that we are very glad now and 
then to be invaded by cheerful people from the outer world. 
It may be all very well for an elderly invalid like myself, ’ ’ 
she added, smiling, “but it is not right for a charming 
young woman like Eeine. ’ ’ 

Jack, whose spirits were reyiving, wished politely to 
protest against her reference to herself, but she made a 
little gesture with her hand. 

“ I have no youth and no illusions left,” she said, cheer- 
fully. “ Please take me at my own estimate, and do not 
think it necessary to make civil little disclaimers when I 
refer to my age. You see, it gives a woman so much more 
freedom and license when it is once understood that she 
has no longer anj; youthful aspirations and is to be treated 
as a friendly and benevolent godmother. I have several 
godsons and' goddaughters, and am always ready to add to 
their number. ” 

This was a kind way of intimating to Jack that she 
took a friendly interest in him ; and he recognized the in- 
tention, and began to think his hostess a very delightful 
person. 

“ We had proposed,” she said, when luncheon was over, 
“to take you for a drive this afternoon; but I dare not 
venture out on such a day ; so we will go into the salon and 
have our coffee and a chat, and as soon as you begin to get 
bored you shall make any pretext you like, or none at all, 
and run away.” 

“And now,” said Mrs. Herbert, when they were installed 
by the fire in two comfortable chairs, and the servant who 
brought the coffee had departed, ‘ ‘ we can talk at ,our ease. 
I have a theory that it is wrong to make personal remarks 
before servants ; and yet it is so much more interesting to 
talk about people than things. ’ ’ 

Then she drew him on to speak about his cousins, h’’« 
little invalid sister, his own interests and pursuits, 

•very gradually, to the subject of Eeine. She ad 
ignored his feelings for her friend, and spoke o^ 
though she wished to call his attention to the ch 
person whom he did not, perhaps, sufficientP 
Jack listened with eagerness, with a glo^^ 
began to feel as if he had known Mrs. H^^ 


10H ONCP. AGAIN. 

instead of having only met her yesterday for the first 
time. 

“There is no one,” Mrs. Herbert said, “who has been 
more misunderstood than Reine. It is perhaps her own 
fault a little; and yet, though I do not think she willingly 
gives false impressions, she does not try to avoid doing so, 
or to correct them when once they are made. The real 
Reine is the most kind-hearted, lovable, affectionate creat- 
ure in the world. ’ ' 

“ I am sure of it,” exclaimed Jack, with a warmth which 
would have betrayed him even if his feelings had been a 
secret until now. 

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Herbert continued, reflectively, with- 
out giving any sign of having noticed his enthusiasm, “per- 
haps you do not know by experience how wrong things are 
apt to go in this world, and that many people, women es- 
pecially, are doomed to contend with the very trials which 
are most painful to them and cause them the greatest suf- 
fering. Now, if Reine, with her impulsive nature, had 
married a man who was at all suited to her, she might 
have been one of the happiest women in the world ; and 
certainly no woman could have been better calculated to 
make a man happy. ’ ’ 

Jack devoured Mrs. Herbert with his eyes, as though im- 
ploring further confidences. 

She had every intention of confiding in him, for she had 
made up her mind about him and had taken a very shrewd 
diagnosis of this character. He was true ; he was to be 
trusted ; he was devoted to Reine ; and he was not in the 
very least likely to repeat what she said. Not that she in- 
tended to make any indiscreet revelations to him ; there 
was nothing in Reine’ s life that a man who loA^ed her would 
not love her the better for hearing — nothing but what 
would increase the chivalrous feeling of a good man and 
intensify his desire to love and to protect her. Mrs. Her- 
bert made no apology for confiding in Jack, but now rather 
assumed the air and manner of one who talks to a common 
friend of some person whom both love. She was an ex- 
cellent talker, and could tell a story with a smoothness and 
consecutiveness which few people are gifted with. Prob- 
ably if Reine had been aware that her friend was beguiling 
SHV John Chester with her biography she would have been 
^ angry; but the blessing that we ought to be most 
ful for in this life —ignorance of what is said of us in 
nee — was vouchsafed to her, and, little dreaming 
'Iv- interesting tete-a-tete that was going on doAvn- 
's hoping that poor, dear Mia was not being 
hored. 

however, Avas very far from being bored. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


109 


She Imd taken an immense fancy to Jack; she had made 
np her mind that he was the very man to make Reine 
happy, and she already intended to assist him by every 
means in her power, being perfectly aware at the same time 
that she would have to be very clever and cunning to con- 
ceal her designs from that acute lady. As for Jack I leave 
the reader to conjecture what his feelings were as he 
listened to and talked of the one subject that engrossed his 
soul. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“If her mother had been alive, Reine would never have 
married that wretch,” said Mrs. Herbert, with vindictive 
energy. * ‘ The worst misfortune that ever happened to the 
poor, dear child was the death of Mrs. Chandos. She was 
a charming woman, and she and Reine were devoted to 
each other.” 

“Mrs. Chandos, I suppose, was Mrs. Vernon’s sister?” 
ventured Jack. 

“Yes; but I do not think they were at all alike. I 
knew Mrs. Chandos well, but my acquaintance with Mrs. 
Vernon is only slight. She seems a thorough woman of 
the world, and a much more decided person than her 
sister, who was very gentle, very yielding, easily trampled 
on. From what I have seen of Mrs. Vernon,” smiling, “I 
do not ihink it would be easy to trample on her.” 

“ No indeed,” smiled Jack, in response. 

“When a woman is soft and gentle,” observed Mrs. Her- 
bert, “a man — that is, a husband— frequently takes the 
opportunity of oppressing her.” 

“Really!” uttered Jack. “I’m afraid I don’t know 
much about these things.” 

“On the other hand,” continued Mrs. Herbert, lightly, 
“if the husband is weak and easy-going, he is tolerably 
sure to be ruled with a high hand by his wife.” 

“I suppose,’’ remarked Jack, doubtfully, “that opposite 
natures were intended to come together. ’ ’ 

“To the great detriment of the next generation,” said 
Mrs. Herbert. ‘ ‘ Reine and I have a theory that the cause 
of most of our mental suffering is the opposing influences 
of the two separate natures and wills that we inherit from 
our two parents struggling within us. However,” with 
a light laugh, seeing Jack’s look of perplexity, “ I am not 
going to bore you with our theories (we have a good many 
between us) ; at all events, not now. They shall be kept 
for another day. I did not like Colonel Chandos at all. He 
' could, and did, make himself very agreeable in society, but 
was extremely despotic, arrogant, and ill-tempered at home. 


no 


ONCE AGAIN. 


Reine inherited something of his fiery spirit as well as her 
mother’s kind heart and sweet nature, and she resented 
his behavior, and would have shown her resentment but 
for her mother’s entreaties. The two were all in all to 
each other, and then, as misfortune would have it, Mrs. 
Chandos died from the effects of an accident when Reine 
was just seventeen, and, poor, dear child ! her heart was all 
but broken. For some months she stayed with me, then 
she went to her aunt, Mrs. Vernon, and finally it was de- 
cided that she was to return to her father to preside over 
his house. This did not answer particularly well : he was 
tyrannical and disagreeable, and she resented his treatment 
of her, and now there was no mother to stand between 
them. It was just at the time when she felt most unhappy 
and unsettled at home that she met Captain Bernard, who 
fell desperately in love with her. I believe — I hope I do 
not do him injustice— that Colonel Chandos knew that he 
had led anything but a reputable life, and that he drank ; 
but he was rich and heir-presumptive to a barony, so the 
colonel, being rather anxious to break up his establishment 
and enjoy more freedom for himself, put no obstacle in the 
way. Reine was always imaginative and romantically in- 
clined, poor dear child, so she proceeded to idealize her lover, 
and to throw a halo of her own creating round him, and, 
as he was very careful to keep his bad habits in the back- 
ground, she imagined him a sort of hero, and looked for- 
ward to the happiness that only exists in story-books.” 

Jack gazed earnestly at his companion. 

“You seem to take a very bad view of life,” he said. 
“ Do you really think there is no happiness in it?” 

‘ ‘ I think there is plenty of happiness for people with 
good health and good digestions,” answered Mrs. Herbert, 
with something between a smile and a sigh. “I think 
there is physical happiness and enjoyment, but that is for 
those who do not look much beyond the physical ; but for 
people troubled with great ideas and imaginations I be- 
lieve there is a- good deal more misery than happiness. 
Young ladies who write poetry and look at the stars and 
dream of knights and heroes ar(^ apt to suffer very rude 
revulsions of feeling when they come in contact with the 
hard and prosaic realities of life.” 

“ But,” said Jack, with some warmth, “ every man does 
not turn out a drunken blackguard; and if a beautiful 
girl married a— a decently good sort of fellow who was 
devoted to her, even if he did not come up to her imagi- 
nation, I suppose there might be a chance of his making 
her tolerably happy. ” 

“Of course, there is every chance,” Mrs. Herbert an- 
swered. “ If Reine had married some nice, kind man who 


ONCE AGAIN 


111 


loved her, I believe she would have been a comparatively 
happy woman. She would have come down from the skies 
and found the earth quite habitable. I feel sure that under 
some circumstances she might still be happy. I told her 
so only last night.” 

“And what did she say?” asked Jack, eagerly. 

“She poo-poohed the idea, of course. But I do not de- 
spair. ’ ’ 

Jack looked ardently at Mrs. Herbert, as though he were 
dying to say something, but she hurried on with her story : 

“ Well, Heine married, and for a month everything went 
smoothly. Captain Bernard put a patent-leather boot on 
his cloven foot until unfortunately he met an old boon- 
companion whom he invited to dinner. When they joined 
Reine in the drawing-room, she was painfully impressed 
by something in her husband’s demeanor, and retired early. 
The pair adjourned down-stairs, and Captain Bernard, when 
he again joined his wife, was hopelessly drunk. There 
was a scene next morning; she threatened to leave him; 
he promised reformation; but after that his lapses from 
sobriety became frequent. Reine fled to her father, who 
declined to receive her, and told her bluntly that she must 
make the best of things, and she had no choice but to re- 
Durn to her wretched home for a time. Her love had 
turned to ioathing and contempt; her husband, incensed by 
her coldness and disgust, began to hate her ; he left her and 
consorted openly with disreputable people, and one night 
he threw a decanter at ’her which struck her head and 
caused her nearly to bleed to death. A doctor was sent for ; 
the butler and footmen saw her fainting on the floor ; there 
was no lack of evidence of his cruelty.” 

Jack’s face was rigid; his teeth were clinched. Mrs. 
Herbert purposely avoided looking at him. 

I was abroad at the time. She went to Mrs. Vernon 
when she was able to be moved, and as soon as possible a 
divorce was obtained. When she joined me some months 
later in Italy, I think I never saw so heart-broken a 
woman. She would not go anywhere in public nor see any 
one: she had a morbid idea that she was irretrievably dis- 
graced. She was subject to the most violent outbursts of 
despaitt and grief ; her nerves were shattered, and I was at 
my wits’ end to know what to do with her. It was then 
that — unfortunately, as I cannot help thinking — she met 
Henry Bertram. He took an immense interest in and 
gained an enormous influence over her. She had been re- 
ligiously brought up by her motlier, and lier mind was 
then tormented by the impossibility of reconciling omnipo- 
tence and universal benevolence in the Divine Being. Suf- 
teiing had weakened her faith, and she revolted from what 


112 


ONCE AGAIN 


she considered the intolerable injustice of human life and 
the cruelty of unmerited suffering. Henry Bertram is a 
robust unbeliever, perfectly happy without a faith or creed 
of any kind except the creed of personal probity and honor, 
and not in the least comprehending the difference of 
fibei' between his strong, resolute nature and the delicate, 
nervous, imaginative, dependent organization of a woman, 
or rather a girl, like Eeine, thought the kindest thing he 
could do for her was to convince her that the religion in 
which she had been brought up was a sham and a delusion, 
and that as soon as she cast off its shackles and ceased to 
torment herself with vain speculations, accepted realities 
and made the best of life from his pagan point of view, she 
^venld be an inhnitely happier, more contented woman 
And, perhaps, if he could have changed her life to one full 
of interests like his own and closed her brain to thought, 
his remedy might have answered, instead of depriving her 
of what little comfort she had and taking away her sole 
mainstay.” 

'‘He must be a thundering blackguard,” uttered Jack, 
betv^n his teeth. 

''My dear Sir John,” answered Mrs. Herbert, looking up 
at him with a smile, “you could not have applied more un- 
just or untrue epithets to Mr. Bertram. I know that in 
the tract-books of one’s youth an unbeliever was always 
painted in appallingly black hues; he was bound to be a 
drunkard, a murderer, a villain of the deepest dye ; and it 
is almost shocking to one’s pet theories to know that so 
many ^.theists, agnostics, or whatever they are called, are 
really excellent people. Henry Bertram is the soul of 
honor; he is the kindest, the most benevolent creature in 
the world; he has discovered, he says, that good is good 
for its own sake ; that it is far better to be upright and 
just from conviction and inclination than from rear of con- 
sequences ; that whether there be a future or not (about 
which he gives no opinion, though he sees no probability 
of it nor has any desire for it), it must make the greatest 
difference in this life both to ourselves and our neighbors 
v/hether we act rightly, kindly, unselfishly; that it is ir- 
rational to be always thinking about what is to happen in 
another world, instead of minding our business and doing 
our best in this, which is at all events a certainty as long 
as it lasts.” 

Jack felt a keen sense of disappointment as he listened to 
this description of the man whom it had pleased him to 
think of as the evil genius of Mrs. Chandos. 

He was not inclined to take him at Mrs. Herbert’s esti- 
mate, she, no doubt, being biased by a personal partiality ; 
ioT Jack still held the view which his interlocutor smilingly 


ONCE AGAIN. 


118 

derided, that a man who believed in nothing must be a 
scoundrel and a villain. He felt that he would rather not 
discuss Bertram; so he asked, after a moment’s pause, 
what had become of Captain Bernard. 

‘ ‘ He is drinking himself to death, ’ ’ returned Mrs. Her- 
bert, ‘ ‘ but, having a fine constitution, he takes a consider- 
able time about it. I shall be glad, ” she continued, calmly, 
“when he is dead, for then I think perhaps Eeine might 
be induced to marry. I fancy she would hardly consider 
it right or feel quite comfortable about it as long as he 
lives. ’ ’ 

Jack had been nerving himself to ask a question. Mrs. 
Herbert’s manner was so kind and confidential that it em- 
boldened him to commit what he strongly suspected was 
an indiscretion, if not an impertinence. He turned uneasily 
in his chair, the color deepened in his cheek, and then he 
said, with an effort, and stammering a little : 

“ Would it be taking a very great liberty if I ask you a 
question? If you think it one, please don’t answer me or 
— or take any notice of it. But — but Mrs. Chandos’ poetry 
would make me think that she had— had cared very much 
about somebody ” 

“ It does seem very wonderful to think,” answered Mrs. 
Herbert, smiling, ‘ ‘ that all those very pretty and rather — 
well, if I must say it— ardent verses were inspired by ideal- 
ization of a drunken brute like her husband, for I assure 
you as a positive fact that Heine has never shown any sign 
of caring for any one else. She has a very poetic and im- 
aginative nature, and you know it is quite possible for 
minds like hers to imagine and describe all sorts of things 
they have not experienced. I have often been quite amused 
to hear Heine discussed by people who knew nothing of her 
and simply judged her from her verses: sometimes, how- 
ever, I have been very angry, for the most unjust and false 
judgments have been formed of her. Because she writes 
of love, the world pictures her surrounded by lovers ; they 
credit her with being her own heroine and bestowing on 
various favored lovers the warmth of feeling which she de- 
scribes. There is not in this world a more innocent or vir- 
tuous woman that Heine, and no one has been more sur- 
prised than I have at the passionate utterances which she 
has occasionally given forth in verse. I am tempted some- 
times to wish she had never written a line ; for, though it 
has given her a considerable reputation and made her much 
sought after, I think it has laid her open to very grave 
misinterpretation. ’ ’ 

A load seemed to be lifted from Jack’s heart. 

“I can quite imagine what you say to be the case,” he 
said, warmly ; ‘ ‘ but yet it is very natural to think that 


114 


ONCH AGAIN. 


when people write about a subject they are expressing their 
own feelings and — and experiences.” 

“That is where ordinary mortals make such tremendous 
mistakes. They cannot allow for the power of imagination. 
I can, for I also am imaginative. If I were to shut my 
eyes and you were to describe to me something that I had 
never seen or heard of, it would all be as plain to my mind's 
eye as if I had witnessed it myself. And any one who, like 
Heine, is at the same time strongly imaginative and sym- 
pathetic, lives in a world of his own, and sees visions and 
dreams dreams so strangely like realities that commonplace 
people would decline to believe that the seer had not taken 
actual part in them. ’ ’ 

Jack was emboldened by Mrs. Herbert’s frankness to say 
something of a still more leading nature. 

“ It is so awfully kind of you to treat me and to talk to 
me in the way you have done, ’ ’ he said, looking eagerly 
and gratefully at her. ' ' I — I dare say you have seen how 
much I — I admire Mrs. Chandos. I have never met any 
one who, I think, could hold a candle to her. Might I ask 
you a question?” imploringly. 

“A dozen,” replied Mrs. Herbert, kindly. 

It was a minute or two before Jack could muster resolu- 
tion to drag out his next question. 

“ Do I bore Mrs. Chandos? Is that why she has kept out 
of the way to-day?” 

Mrs. Herbert smiled reassuringly. 

“No, indeed,” she answered. “I give you my wwd, 
her headache is a sad reality. She is suffering torments. 
Why, last night she and I were making all sorts of plans 
for your entertainment to-day. ’ ’ 

Again Jack felt a load taken from his heart. 

“ Of course,” he said, humbly, “ I knovr it is great pre- 
sumption on my part to think of her at all. I cannot hope 
to interest her in the very least : but ’ ’ 

He looked down at the floor, and left his sentence unfin- 
ished. 

Mrs. Herbert took pity upon him and gave him a little 
gentle encouragement. 

“It is always a mistake,” she said, smiling, “ for a man 
to undervalue himself. Do not be too humble — the woman 
whom you wish to win never thinks any the more favora- 
bly of you for it. You should be friendly and pleasant, 
and endeavor to amuse her. If you look melancholy, as 
men not sure of their position frequently do, you will bore 
her, and that will be fatal. I take quite a friendly interest 
in you, and if I can help you I will. But you must be 
guided by me.” 

Jack made all sorts of protestations of gratitude. In the 


ONCE AGAIN. 


115 


midst of them the door opened, and Mrs. Chandos, looking 
pale and languid, but, as Jack thought, more beautiful than 
ever, came in. 

“ Why, my love,” cried Mrs. Herbert, rising to meet her, 
“this is an agreeable surprise. You are better, I am sure, 
or you would not be here.” 

“ Yes,” answered Reine, “ I am much better.” And she 
greeted Jack kindly. 

Mrs. Herbert insisted on installing her on the sofa and 
making all sorts of little arrangements for her comfort, in 
which she called on Jack to assist her. 

He felt as though sunshine had suddenly broken through 
the gray afternoon, and his face beamed with pleasure. It 
was so delightful to know that she had not purposely 
avoided him — nay, that she had made an effort to come 
down and see him. It was as well, poor fellow, that he did 
not know the real nature of the effort. Reine had thought 
her friend would be so bored by his prolonged visit that 
she had come to relieve her from her task of entertaining 
him. When Mrs. Herbert made some pretext to leave the 
room, Reine did not attempt to hinder her, thinking she 
had well earned this respite. 

But she was agreeably surprised presently to find that 
Sir John was not boring her. He told her about Alwyne’s 
banishment and despair, and Reine grew so interested that 
she almost forgot her headache. Then she drew him on to 
talk of his sister and his own pursuits, and Jack, giving 
heed to Mrs. Herbert’s recent advice, did his utmost to 
amuse and interest her. When that discreet lady returned, 
thinking it wiser not to give Reine time to get weary, she 
found them on excellent terms.- She rang for tea, and the 
three chatted away until Jack, with deep reluctance, and 
only yielding to a strong sense of the impropriety of inflict- 
ing his company any loager on his hostesses, rose to take 
leave. He was coming the next day, he told them, to stay 
with Mrs. Pierpoint, and both pressed him very cordially 
to come again soon. 

How light his heart was as he left the villa ! how different 
his sensations from those he had suffered after his last 
leave-taking there. 

“My dear Jack,” cried Belle, as he entered his cousin’s 
drawing-room, “do, for Heaven’s sake, tell me that you 
have made up your mind to stop with me for a few days ! 
If you don’t, I shall be in a lunatic asylum soon, and 
Alwyne will have probably committed suicide. I never 
knew him take anything so badly ; and that is saying a 
great deal. I suppose he really is in love this time. Tell 
me what extraordinary fascination is there about this 


116 


ONCE AGAIN. 


“Only the fascination that every woman has for the 
man who is in love with her, my dear, as far as I know. 
She has none for me, except that she is a nice, pretty, 
ladylike girl. Yes, I shall be very glad to come and help 
you entertain him, poor chap! But I don’t think it will be 
a very easy task.” 

Alwyne was at that moment cogitating in his own room. 
His one idea was how he was going to communicate with 
Dulcie and to see her without her mother’s knowledge. 
If Jack were worth a straw, he reflected, angrily, he 
could so easily help him ; it was all very fine to talk about 
honor where your own feelings were not interested ; but 
never mind! he would do without him. And Alwyne 
mused and mused until he had concocted a plan for cir- 
cumventing Mrs. Vernon that he hoped would be quite suc- 
cessful. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The four ladies, left at Nice without their cavaliers, 
were all more or less depressed and out of sorts. 

Dulcie was wretched at having lost her handsome and 
devoted admirer, Mrs. Vernon was perplexed and worried 
beyond measure at the new complication, Mrs. Chester was 
miserable at the thought of her dear son being exposed 
to the dangerous seductions of Mrs. Chandos, and Lilah 
was irritable and vexed at the absence of her brother. 
The first three exerted becoming efforts to conceal their 
feelings, but Lilah made no such attempt, her ill health 
being always a sufficient excuse when she chose to be cross 
and peevish. 

Dulcie was beginning to conceive a sullen dislike to poor 
Noel, and to consider that he had shamefully entrapped 
and deceived her. The prospect of going out to India as 
the wife of a poor soldier no longer had any charms for 
her; indeed, she thought it detestable, now that she 
would have had the opportunity, but for her unfortunate 
marriage, of being a rich and considered woman in her 
own country. And Alwyne’ s imperious, determined nat- 
ure was eminently adapted to control her weak and 
wavering one and to impress her with respect and admi- 
ration. She blamed everything and every one but her- 
self for the misfortune which had befallen her; she even 
said to herself that it was her mother’s fault for prevent- 
ing her from seeing Noel, and by so doing making her 
think ten times more of him than she would otherwise have 
done. 

It was the afternoon following Alwyne’ s departure when 
one oi the chambermaids tapped at her door, and, with a 


ONCE AGAIN 


117 


inysterious air, handed her a note whicli she said she had 
been bidden to deliver to mademoiselle when she was alone* 

Dulcie blushed vividly as she took the envelope from the 
woman’s hand, though" she tried to assume a careless and 
natural manner. She waited until she was alone, and then, 
with a beating heart, broke the seal. It was, as she guessed, 
from Alwyne, and was couched in the most passionate and 
despairing terms. He wrote of his unbearable misery, the 
absolute impossibility of enduring life under such intolera- 
ble circumstances, and he conjured her to grant him a 
meeting. He suggested that the following day she should 
feign a headache and declare herself too ill to go down to 
dinner, and then, when her mother was out of the way, 
steal out and meet him in the garden. 

Dulcie ’s mind was a prey to all sorts of conflicting feel- 
ings— her desire to see Alwyne, the recollection that in 
doing so she was committing almost a crime, fear, excite- 
ment, doubt : her brain whirled as these conflicting emo- 
tions chased each other through it. If she could only 
have had some one to help or advise her! but she was 
afraid to trust Morton now, and, of all things, shrank from 
letting the maid know that the hated marriage was valid. 
But the desire to see Alwyne again was paramount, and 
triumphed even Over her fears, and she presently indited 
a few lines to him, saying that she would try to meet him 
on the morrow as he wished, but that it would be only to 
say “good-bye ” and must be for the last time. 

She confided the letter to the chambermaid, and then 
joined her mother in the sitting-room, with a serene and 
unconscious face. Her affair with Noel having given her 
considerable training in deceit, it now came tolerably easy 
to her, and she was not visited by any very severe qualms 
of remorse, as a girl of strong feeling might have been. 
She did not mean any harm : on the contrary, she meant 
to tell him that he must not write to her or try to see her 
at present. If he was so miserable about her, it was only 
fair just to see him and bestow what consolation she 
could upon him. BSfeides this, there was a strong secret 
desire in her heart not to lose him: even without ac- 
knowledging it to herself, she clung to the hope • that 
something — she did not say death— might free her from 
her hated bond. And then she might marry Alwyne, the 
most delightful fate imaginable, and she would get away 
from her mother, whom she no longer loved, but merely 
dreaded. 

When Mrs. Vernon saw her daughter so apparently 
cheerful and unconcerned, she did' not suspect her of any 
fresh duplicity, but only reflected wonderingly on her 
extraordinary insensibility. Strong-willed and resolute 


118 


ONCE AGAIN. 


people are unsuspicious, as a rule. They attack their de- 
sires in a straightforward manner, and try to carry them 
by a coup cle main. If they are disappointed and thwarted, 
they show their feelings openly, rarely attempting dis- ^ 
guise; and they are exceedingly prone to take it for 
granted that other people’s looks and actions are equally 
natural and spontaneous. Having dealt a crushing blow 
on Dulcie by assuring her of the validity of her marriage, 
she was not in the least prepared for the young lady’s con- 
tinuing to encourage Mr. Temple’s suit. 

Whilst despising Dulcie in her heart for the weakness, 
poverty, insensibility of her nature, she still thought it 
matter for congratulation that the girl had so little feeling. 

The next day, after luncheon, Dulcie complained of 
headache. During their afternoon drive she assumed a 
languid air, and on returning home went at once to lie 
down. She made Morton darken the room ; she submitted 
to the operation of having her brow bathed with eau-de- 
Cologne and water ; she even went so far as to take the 
remedies which her mother prescribed. And, as the dinner- 
hour approached, she asked, in a faint voice, to be left 
alone to sleep. She refused to allow Morton to sit in the 
room with her, and begged that she might not be disturbed 
until she rang her bell, when the chambermaid Avould tell 
Morton. 

It was a great relief to Dulcie when she was left alone, 
for she was in such a fever of excitement and terror at the 
bold action she plotted that it was only by an extraordinary 
exertion of self-command that she remained motionless in 
her recumbent position. The instant she was alone, she 
started up, locked the door, dressed herself in her darkest 
clothes, looked out the thickest veil she possessed, and 
waited with what patience she might until she heard the 
summons to the table d'hote. She delayed another ten 
minutes to give eyery one time to assemble in the dining- 
room; then, tying on her veil and another over it, she 
peeped cautiously from her door, and, having assured her- 
self that there was no one about, hurfied along the corri- 
dor, descended a side staircase, and made her way out of 
the house by a back door. In two minutes more she and 
Alvvyne were together — he pouring out all sorts of passion- 
ate exclamations of love, she listening, half enchanted, 
half f^errified. It was in vain she tried to tell him that she 
had only come to wish him good-bye for the last time ; that 
he must not try to see her or write to her any more for the 
present : his vehemence bore down all her remonstrances 
and protestations as the current bears a straw on its bosom. 

He could not live without her ; he would shoot himself 
this sort of thing went on; if she would ordy trust to him 


ONCE AGAIN. 


119 


and do as he told her, he would arrange their meetings and 
correspondence, and they would between them manage to 
outwit her mother. He urged her passionately over and 
over again to tell him what the obstacle to their love was, 
and pressed upon her the suggestion that there was some 
other suitor whom her mother thought more eligible. Dul- 
cie found it the easier plan to allow him to assume that 
this suspicion was correct. 

Time sped on with that incredible swiftness which he 
only employs 'during the meetings of lovers, and Dulcie, 
who in her calculations had arranged that she must not 
he absent from the hotel more than twenty minutes, found 
to her horror, when she looked at her watch, that nearly 
forty had elapsed. She was terrified; the table dliote 
would be over ; she would meet some of the hotel guests 
in the passages or on the stairs, and they would infallibly 
recognize her. What should she do? She tore herself 
from Alwyne’s embrace and fied back to the hotel, crept 
cautiously in at the door, got up-stairs without meeting 
any one except a waiter and a chambermaid, turned into 
her own corridor with a sensation of intense relief, opened 
her door, and — found herself face to face with her mother. 

For a full minute — an awful minute, pregnant with hor- 
ror — not a word was uttered by either. Dulcie felt she 
was lost. Mrs. Vernon had realized the situation and de 
cided upon action. 

When she spoke there was a terrible calmness in her 
voice. 

“You have been to meet Mr. Temple?” 

No response from Dulcie. 

“ Knowing that you are the* wife of another man. Per- 
haps you are contemplating an elopement with him. The 
punishment for bigamy is imprisonment.” 

Dulcie stood trembling like a leaf, looking away from 
her mother. Mrs. Vernon was in a state of intense exas- 
peration, but her tone was cold and incisive. 

“I see,” she continued, “that if you remain with me 
you will end by bringing some terrible disgrace upon me. 
I have no longer any control over you, and deceit is a 
thing with which I cannot pretend to cope. I now look 
upon the accident which happened to your husband on 
your wedding-day as a very great misfortune for me. But 
for that, I should be relieved of all responsibility about 
you, and you would probably be on your way to India. I 
intend to start for England the day after to-morrow, and 
the moment that your husband is well enough to under- 
take the care of you I shall hand you over to him. Of 
two evils one must choose the least, and though your ex- 
traordinary story may give rise to some gossip, still I feel 


120 


ONC^E AGAIN, 


it is better to let the world talk about that tb.ail about 
some still more disgraceful situation into which you may 
possibly get yourself. For my own part, I shall endeavor 
to forget the past and the affection and interest which I 
have always felt for you ; indeed, I shall be thankful to be 
relieved from the frightful responsibility of looking after 
a girl who has neither self-respect nor, apparently, any 
sense of right and wrong. If, between this time and the 
day you go to your husband, I find you are holding corre- 
spondence of any kind with Mr. Temple, I shall write and 
tell him the truth.” 

Mrs. Vernon’s words had their full effect, llulcie was 
terrified nearly to death. She sobbed and cried, implored 
and entreated, promised anything in the world if only her 
mother would not forsake her and give her up to Noel. 
For now the weak girl was persuaded that all her heart 
was given to Alwyne, and the thought of Noel was hateful 
to her. 

The sight of her distress did not touch one chord of pity 
in her mother’s heart; she felt nothing but boundless con- 
tempt for her. She was satisfied with the excellent result 
of her threats, about which she was half in earnest. She 
argued seriously to herself that Dulcie’s extraordinary 
weakness and apparent obliviousness to right and wrong 
might lead her into some very serious predicament, and she 
told herself, besides, that, as the girl was really married to 
Noel and the marriage could not be undone, the only thing 
was to make the best of it and let it be announced to the 
world as soon as possible. Her own ambition on Dulcie’s 
behalf was crushed forever; all she could now hope was to 
make her own life as pleasant and agreeable as possible. 
Dulcie in India would be very much like Dulcie dead ; the 
affection which she had entertained for her only child had 
dwindled away to nothing; indeed, the girl’s companion- 
ship had become irksome and the responsibility for her 
caprices harassing in the extreme. 

If, three months earlier, any one had told her that her 
feeling for her daughter could undergo such a change, she 
would not have believed it; but Dulcie's behavior had 
caused her such poignant disappointment and annoyance 
that, not having the blind mother's love which no ill con- 
duct on the part of a child can alienate, she had grown to^ 
look upon her with a degree of coldness, anger, and dis- 
trust which swamped all warmer feeling. 

Dulcie’s tears and distress did not move her; she took a 
revengeful pleasure in terrifying her and in seeing her suf- 
fer. Why should she be sorry for a girl who had been ab- 
solutely indifferent to her feelings? 

“You have brought all this on yourself,” she said, um 


ONCE AGAIN 


121 


pityingly, “and must take the consequences. I cannot 
help you ; you have put yourself beyond the power of any 
one to help you. I have brought you up with the utmost 
care; you have been guarded and shielded from harm, you 
have never been left to the care of strangers or hirelings, 
never had any anxiety , or trouble ; and yet the very first 
time when, for your own sake, I thwart you— when, for 
your own sake (for how can it personally affect me whether 
you are -comfortable or uncomfortable, happy or unhappy ?), 
I refuse to allow you to see more of a penniless man with- 
out recommendation of any sort^you at once fly to deceit, 
and, with the most extraordinary folly and obstinacy, 
take a step which is to ruin your whole future. You 
thought you were in love with Mr. Trevor, and here, you 
see, less than two months after you have married him and 
by doing so cut yourself off from all other men, you fall in 
love again, and this time with a man whom 1 would gladly 
have received and welcomed, and who would have been an 
excellent match.” 

Dulcie buried her face in her hands in an agony of self- 
abasement and misery. Each word of her mother’s cut her 
to the heart. 

“Even now,” proceeded Mrs. Vernon, with unrelaxed 
severity, “I do not think you realize your position. Are 
you aware that in listening to Mr. Temple’ a professions of 
love, and perhaps permitting his embraces (for I have so 
little opinion of you that I think even this quite possible), 
you are committing a positive crime? If your husband 
ever hears of this, what do you suppose he will think of 
it? No doubt he imagines you to be devoted to him; and 
how would he like to know that, when he is lying at 
death’s door, you are stealing out at night to meet another 
man?” 

By this time Dulcie was in hysterics, and her mother 
thought it expedient to discontinue the infliction of the 
moral kourbash. She proceeded to leave the room, saying, 
something unfeelingly : 

“You had better control yourself, or you will have peo- 
ple coming to see what is the matter. I shall return 
when you are more composed, and will then tell you my 
plans.” 

Mrs. Vernon went back to the sitting-room a prey to 
feelings of the most unpleasant kind. Until the last day 
or two, when Alwyne’s suit had taken her so disagreeably 
by surprise, she had really been enjoying the life at Nice 
when she could get away from the dreadful thought of 
Dulcie’s marriage. The sunshine and beautiful scenery, 
the companionship of her old friend Mrs. Chester, and of 
other pleasant acquaintances, had made life extremely 


122 


ONCE AGAIN 


agreeable, and she had been in part able to lay aside the 
haunting dread of the future. She was willing to wait 
calmly for events without going to meet misfortune. It 
was obvious now that she must leave Nice and get Dulcie 
away from Alwyne’s influence; and she came to the con- 
clusion that the best plan would be to return to London, 
As to traveling about alone with her daughter, the idea was 
' intolerable; and now Mrs. Vernon was really of opinion 
that the sooner Dulcie was re-married and handed to her 
husband the better. She had fled from England to be out 
of Noel’s way; now she was about to return in order to 
seek him. Such is the irony of Fate ! 

But what excuse was she to make to Mrs. Chester for 
leaving Nice? No allusion had been made by either of the 
ladies to Alwyne’s suit or his sudden departure, though 
Mrs. Vernon did not for a moment doubt that her friend 
was aware of the former and its connection with the latter. 
It would be better to avoid the awkwardness that a refer- 
ence to the truth might occasion, and to invent some plaus- 
ible excuse. 

She would say that her father, who was a very old man, 
was in such a precarious state of health that she felt it 
her duty to go to him at once, as she had received a report 
which occasioned her. great anxiety. The next morning 
she would telegraph her intended return to Mr. Benson 
and the butler, and the day following they would leave 
Nice and travel straight through to England. 

Mrs. Vernon arranged all her plans with care, and, when 
they were quite settled, went back to her daughter’s room. 

Dulcie was lying limp and exhausted on the bed, inca- 
pable of remonstrance or resistance to her mother’s will. 
Mrs. Vernon, in a quiet, decided voice, informed her of her 
plans and of the reason which she intended to give to Mrs. 
Chester and their other acquaintances for their sudden de- 
parture. 

Dulcie did not respond by a single word. 

Mrs. Vernon, on leaving her, sent for Morton, and, to 
the maid’s bitter disappointment, told her that she would 
have to pack up on the morrow, and assigned the same 
reason for returning to London that she proposed to give 
to every one else. 

Morton could have cried; she had never enjoyed any- 
thing so much in her life as this sojourn in the Nice hotel, 
where there was as much gayety below stairs as above, 
and where she mixed with the most delightful company 
of valets and ladies’ -maids, was invited to soirees and 
dances, played cards, and heard the most interesting and 
scandalous gossip about all the families in th§ place who 
were fortunate enough to be represented by domestics. 


ONCE AGAIN 


123 


But she could not remonstrate with her lady against 
thus arbitrarily cutting her off from her new-found joys 
and pleasures ; she could only exhibit her chagrin in hpr 
face and manner, of which, naturally, Mrs. Vernon took 
not the smallest notice. 

Having laid her commands on Morton, Mrs. Vernon 
sought Mrs. Chester, and, in the most natural manner in 
the world, confided to her that she had received news of 
an alarming character about her father’s health and felt 
it her duty to return at once to England . Mrs. Chester, 
the most truthful and unsuspicious woman living, believed 
implicitly what her friend told her, and sympathized in 
the warmest and most sincere manner with the afflicted 
daughter. She deeply regretted the departure of Mrs. 
Vernon and Dulcie, to both of whom she had become much 
attached. They had made her stay at Nice much pleasanter 
than it would otherwise have been; and she extracted a 
promise from Mrs. Vernon to go and visit her in the sum- 
mer or autumn. 

Mrs. Chester sat ruminating very sorrowfully after her 
friends left her. She was shy and retiring, not at all given 
to making acquaintances, and she scarcely knew any one 
in the hotel or the place with whom she would care to as- 
sociate when Mrs. Vernon and Dulcie left. And she 
thought sadly how the little castle had been thrown down 
which she had built for the habitation of her son and Dul- 
cie — that dear, good, innocent girl, who would have made 
him such a charming wife. And he was now, as, alas! 
there could be no doubt, under the pernicious influence of 
the dangerous siren at Cannes, who had cast a glamour 
over him which, as his mother believed, had never been 
cast by any woman before. What, ah ! what was to be the 
end of it? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

It was the end of May. Dulcie and her mother were en- 
tering into the festivities of the season, and leading exactly 
the same sort of life as they would have done had the un- 
toward event of the previous November never happened. 
Noel had made no sign: they were ignorant of his fate, his 
whereabouts, of everything that concerned him. Now and 
then the remembrance of him came across both mother 
and daughter as a sort of nightmare, but, by common con- 
sent, no mejition was ever made of him. 

Never had Dulcie received so much attention. Fate, with 
the irony in which she delights, brought several advanta- 
geous suitors to her feet — suitors whom a year ago Mrs. 
Vernon would have welcomed with delight. The frigid re- 


124 


ONCE AGAIN. 


ception which they met at the hands of both mother and 
daughter seemed to increase their ardor. Mrs. Vernon was 
forced by circumstances to turn a deaf ear and cold glances 
upon men whom she would have gladly smiled at, and Dul- 
cie was terrified now at the approach of any man with 
words of love and admiration on his lips. For Alwyne was 
the real possessor of her heart, and, although she had not 
seen him since that dreadful evening at Nice, she had de- 
termined in her foolish head that he was the only man she 
ever could or would love, and, as it was impossible she 
could marry at all, she would never place herself again in 
the terrible predicament in which that affair with Alwyne 
had landed her. 

She went to balls, parties and plays, she danced, she 
smiled, she talked pleasantly enough ; but the moment any 
admirer showed symptoms of tenderness or undue attrac- 
tion she froze at once, and, contrary to the old axiom, the 
more fire he showed, the less disposition the young lady 
evinced to him. Once or twice Mrs. Vernon had earnestly 
discussed her daughter’s affairs with Mr. Benson. He rec- 
ommended her to wait until Mr. Trevor took the initiative. 

There was no question in his own mind that the young 
man’s head had been affected by the injury; he might even 
have forgotten the fact of the marriage, or his health might 
still be in such a condition that he felt it expedient to wait 
until he was stronger before he made the necessary over- 
tures and explanations which would now be indispensable 
to the recovery of his wife. It was quite possible, Mr. Ben- 
son suggested, that he had been warned against any excite 
ment, and that he feared the consequences of a meeting 
with Mrs. V ernon. He must be convinced ere this, by Dul- 
cie’s having made no attempt to see or communicate with 
him, that his hold over her was not so strong as her 
mother’s. He saw nothing for it but to wait. To seek out 
the young man, and, if he was still an invalid, as there could 
be no doubt he was, to put it into his head to claim his wife 
would be a most unwise proceeding. 

Mrs. Vernon had resumed friendly relations with Dulcie. 
After their return to London she had felt the utter im- 
possibility of their living together on bad terms : so mak- 
ing an immense effort over herself, she pretended to ignore 
all the unpleasantness which had gone before, and to take 
up life from the morning before Dulcie had sallied forth to 
commit that fatal, irretrievable action which she imagined 
was to lead her straight to the “happy ever after ” point. 
As this would have been almost impossible had they re- 
mained tete-a-tete, Mrs. Vernon invited friends to stay 
with them : so that for some months now there had nearly 
always been a third person whose presence made the 


ONCB AGAIN. 


155 


amenities of life necessary and com]3arativeIy easy. At 
the present iroment the, in this case, welcome third was 
a cousin of Mrs. Vernon’s, a widow of middle age, child- 
less, prepossessing in face and manner, good-tempered, 
and fairly well-off. Dulcie was fond of her, and she, Mrs. 
Leslie, entirely reciprocated the affection. She liked the 
society of young people better than that of women of her 
ovvn age. Mrs: Vernon, who was suffering slight incon- 
venience at this time from a strain of a sinew, was glad 
that Mrs. Leslie should relieve her occasionally from the 
duties of chaperonage and take Dulcie to balls and other 
entertainments which necessitated standing about. 

Mrs. Leslie loved society, and was disposed for all sorts 
of amusement. She particularly liked walking in the Eow 
in the morning, and had no difficulty in persuading her 
pretty cousin to accompany her. Mother and daughter 
had kept their own counsel well, and Mrs. Leslie had not 
the faintest suspicion of the exciting romance of which the 
quiet and modest Dulcie had been the heroine a few months 
before. 

This fine May morning Mrs. Leslie and Dulcie, as usual, 
wended their way to the Park, and took chairs placed with 
their backs to the railings and commanding a view of all 
who passed down the Eow. A friend of Mrs. Leslie’s 
came up, greeted her with warmth, and asked permission 
to take the vacant chair beside her. It was at this mo- 
ment, when her cousin’s attention was quite absorbed, 
that Dulcie, looking to her right, beheld within a few paces 
of her the handsome face and figure of Alwyne Temple. 
The blood rushed tumultuously to her cheeks; at that in- 
stant he caught sight of her, and a look of delight beamed 
in his eyes. In another moment, having assured himself 
that Mrs. Vernon was not of the party, he had quietly 
taken the seat beside Dulcie and was pressing her hand. 

“ Is it safe to speak to you?” he whispered, with a glance 
at Mrs. Leslie’s averted head; and Dulcie made a sign in 
the affirmative. 

‘ ‘ My own darling ! how delighted I ard to see you once 
more!” he murmured. ‘‘If you knew how wretched I 
have been all this time! Tell me, is your mother still 
dead against me, or has the mysterious obstacle been re- 
moved?” 

At this question, fraught with horror to Dulcie, the crim- 
son, which had been waning in her cheeks, flowed in full 
tide over them again. She shook her head and looked 
utterly miserable; the delight which she had felt at sight 
of Alwyne was swallowed up in the dreadful remembrance 
of Noel. 

Mrs. Leslie turned her head at the moment, and, well 


m 


ONCE AGAIN. 


pleased to find that Dulcie was apparently so agreeably oc- 
cupied, returned with redoubled energy to flirting with her 
companion, Colonel Strange. 

Alwyne saw the distress in the girl’s face, and it per- 
plexed him greatly. 

“ Tell me, darling,” he whispered, “ what is this wretched 
obstacle? We are as good as alone now; you know you 
can trust me ; it is awfully cruel to keep me in this sus- 
pense. I have never known a happy hour since that night 
at Nice when I last saw you. I went to India, and haven’t 
been back a week. Tell me, darling, I implore you,” he 
urged, in a low voice of entreaty, nfraid of attracting Mrs. 
Leslie’s attention. 

It was an awful position for Dulcie, who, having been 
lifted to a seventh heaven of delight at seeing Alwyne, 
was now plunged into the depths of woe at the remem- 
brance that he could be nothing to her, and that it was ab- 
solutely impossible for her to toll him why. 

“Don’t ask me!” she said, miserably. “I can never 
marry. It is no use talking. Mamma will not hear of it. ” 

“Do you mean, solemnly,” asked Alwyne, looking at 
her as though his eyes could pierce her secret heart, “ that 
you will never be able to marry anybody?” 

Dulcie hesitated. There was always the hope that 
Noel might die; for all she knew, he might be dead al- 
ready. 

Alwyne pressed her for an answer. 

“ I do not know about never,” she said, at last, des- 
perately; “but not yet. I must not even talk or think 
about it yet. But, oh!” in a very low voice, “ could you 
not, if you really care for me, be patient for a little and 
wait?” 

“Be patient! — good God!” cried Alwyne, unconsciously 
raising his voice in his excitement, but suddenly checked 
by the curious looks of two ladies who were passing at the 
moment. Mrs. Leslie was, fortunately, too much engaged 
with her colonel to hear his exclamation. 

“ Pray don’t speak so loud,” whispered Dulcie, implor- 
ingly. “If my cousin were to hear! And if mamma 
knew I had spoken to you she would be so dreadfully 
angry.” 

‘ ‘ But cannot I meet you somehow without your mother 
knowing?” he said, eagerly. “ Wouldn't your cousin help 
us?” indicating Mrs. Leslie by a gesture. 

“It does not do to trust any one,” answered Dulcie, 
mournfully shaking her head. “I shall not tell her your 
name. I shall pretend I have forgotten it.” 

“ Is she staying with you? Do you often go out with 
her?^’ asked Alwyne. 


ONCE AGAIN 127 

“ Yes. Mamma is not well, and my cousin is taking me 
about. ’ ’ 

Alwyne’s face brightened. 

“ Then I think we shall be able to manage something,” 
he said, hopefully. ‘ ‘ Tell me, are you going to many dances 
or balls just now?” 

“ I am going to the Fawcetts’ to-night,” she answered. 

“That’s capital!” replied the young man, joyfully. 
“ Charlie Fawcett and I were at Eton together. I met him 
only this morning, and he invited me, though, when I ac- 
cepted, I had not the smallest intention of going. How I 
shall look forward to to-night 1 Do not be late, my darling ! 
Let us, at all events, have one happy evening together. 
And after that,” looking very handsome and resolute, “we 
will see if something cannot be managed for the future. I 
don’t intend your mother or any one else to spoil our 
lives.” 

Dulcie seemed to catch the infection of his spirit. Yes, 
for once she would be happy ; for once she would forget 
that dreadful sword of Damocles hanging over her. 

“Wish me good-bye, now,” she whispered. “I do not 
want my cousin’s suspicions to be excited.” 

And Alwyne, after protesting, complied at last with deep 
reluctance. 

“Till to-night, then,’' he whispered, with a string of 
endearments hanging to the words. 

The next time that Mrs. Leslie looked round, Dulcie’s 
companion had disappeared, and she suggested that it was 
time for them to be going lunchward. Her colonel accom- 
panied them to the Grosvenor gate. When he took leave, 
Mrs. Leslie questioned Dulcie about her friend in the Row. 

“ I forget his name,” Dulcie replied, mendaciously. 

“He is very good looking — wonderfully good-looking,” 
remarked Mrs. Leslie. “And I thought he seemed very 
devoted to you.” 

“Oh, no,” replied Dulcie, “not at all. I met him at 
Nice ; but do not mention him betore mamma. For some 
reason or other she did not like him, and perhaps she might 
be vexed at his speaking to me. ’ ’ 

“I suppose that, like most good-looking young men, he 
has no money,” returned Mrs. Leslie. “Do not be afraid, 
my dear; I will be the soul of discretion. But I wonder 
that he has not made more impression on you. Tell me, 
Dulcie, have you never been in love?” 

I think being in love is a mistake^” returned Dulcie, 
evasively. 

“But how can one help it?” said her cousin, gayly. “ I 
have always been in love more or less all my life. ’ ’ 

“And is Colonel Strange the last?” asked Dulcie, de- 


m ONCE AGAIN. 

lighted at the opportunity of turning the conversation away 
from herself. 

Mrs. Leslie blushed like a girl, and all the way home ex- 
patiated on the agreeable qualities of Colonel Strange. 

Dulcie excused herself from driving with her mother in 
the afternoon. Her mind was full of excitement : she was 
looking forward eagerly to the night. But afterward! 
What was to happen afterward? It seemed as if she did 
not care. Only let her spend these delightful hours with 
Alwyne — dance with him, sit out in some sequestered spot 
with him, hear him say again that he loved her — and then 
— come what would 1 How strangely things happened in 
the world 1 These people who were giving the dance to- 
night were the same at whose house she had met Noel. At 
this moment Dulcie could not believe or realize that she 
had ever cared for him: it seemed to her as though she 
must have been under some fatal spell. When she com- 
pared him with Alwyne, she could not imagine what she 
had ever seen to like in him. But at that time she had not 
known Alwyne. There was hardly a man of her acquaint- 
ance whom she did not prefer to poor Noel, so prejudiced 
and bitter she felt against him for the suffering and wretch- 
edness he had caused her. 

Morton thought her strangely fanciful and capricious as 
she dressed for the ball that evening. Usually compla- 
cently indifferent to her appearance, she seemed to-night 
intensely anxious about it: nothing could please her or con- 
vince her that she was really looking her best. And yet 
she had never looked so pretty: the unusual animation 
which excitement lent to her became her amazingly. Her 
mother was surprised at her beauty, and groaned inwardly 
as she thought how disastrously its advantages had been 
thrown away. 

Alwyne was on the stairs waiting for Hulcie when she 
arrived at the ball, and a moment after she had greeted her 
hostess his arm was round her, and they were gliding 
away in the most delightful of waltzes. The rooms were 
not yet full, and dancing was not only possible but enjoy- 
able. Three quarters of an hour passed, it was just upon 
midnight, and Alwyne had not left her for one instant. 

Dulcie knew that she was committing the gravest im- 
prudence— that her mother would never forgive her if she 
ever came to learn the events of this evening ; but somehow, 
the danger and w^rong of what she was doing only enhanced 
the excitement and delight of it ; she seemed to care nothing 
for the morrow. 

Every one remarked this handsome pair, and their 
absorption in each other ; and it was rumored at once that 


ONCE AGAIN, 129 

Alwyne had proposed to and been accepted by Miss Ver- 
non. 

Mrs. Leslie had some slight misgivings about this very 
marked flirtation ; she had never seen Dulcie give encour- 
agement to any man before, and meant to remonstrate 
gently with her on the subject; not because she minded her- 
self, but because she was afraid of Mrs. Vernon’s reproaches 
if it came to her ears. 

The house in which the ball was given was a new one, 
built in the old-fashioned style, and there were (juaint nooks 
and corners in it highly suitable and appropriate for soli- 
tudes a deux. It was close upon midnight when Alwyne 
sought refuge in one of these delightful spots with his be- 
loved one. It was a curtained recess, partly draped, and 
screened off by palms and flowers, much sought after by 
such pairs, who wished for a time to be alone among a 
crowd and for the moment to live only for each other. 
Until now, though Alwyne had cast many a longing glance 
toward this bower, it had not been vacant, but at present 
his turn had come, and he and Dulcie were, to all intents 
and purposes, “ far from the madding crowd.” 

Dulcie felt, knew, that she was doing wrong; but the 
knowledge did not hinder her from doing it : j^wyne had 
such a mastery over her that she did not even attempt to 
oppose his will. No fear of their being interrupted. She 
had refused to engage herself for any dance except those 
she gave to Alwyne ; the edge of her tulle skirt peeping be- 
yond the palms gave notice that the alcove was occupied ; 
and, although there was room for a second couple, the 
vacant half was not coveted by those to whom the whole 
would alone have been acceptable. 

Alwyne wa^ madly in love with his pretty companion ; 
he refused to recognize any obstacle to his passion, and 
Dulcie had almost got beyond the remembrance that there 
was one. She had assured herself that it was “only for 
this one evening,” and, satisfying her conscience with that 
excuse, she, as we have known her do on previous occa- 
sions, threw prudence to the winds and lived but for the 
moment. She loved Alwyne; she hated Noel; she ban- 
ished him from her thoughts and refused to remember his 
existence or her bond. 

Alwyne had given up asking questions. Confident in 
his own strong will, and buoyed up by his passion, he was 
determined that all should come right, and defied Fate, 
Mrs. Vernon, and everything else. 

Now he cared for nothing but to feel Dulcie’s hand in 
his, to breathe impassioned words into her dainty ear, to 
assure himself by the expression of her eyes that her heart 
was his. He drew her toward him; his lips just touched 


130 


ONCE AGAIN, 


hers, when there came the crash of a falling palm, and, 
starting apart, Dulcie with a smothered scream, Alwyne 
with a muttered curse, they became conscious of a hag- 
gard face glaring upon them through the flower-screen. 
Another moment, and its owner stood panting before 
them. 

“How dare you touch my wife?” he almost shrieked, 
then staggered and fell forward, and had not Alwyne 
darted up and caught him he would have fallen prone into 
Dulcie’ s lap. For one awful moment the girl was para- 
lyzed ; then, as she heard a gurgling sound in the unhappy 
man’s throat, and saw Alwyne holding him, she started 
up, and, white, scared, terrifled as one who has seen a 
ghost, she hurried to the ballroom, where she had left her 
cousin. 

Most fortunatelj' , Mrs. Leslie was standing by the door. 
Before she had time even to give a startled ejaculation, 
Dulcie caught her by the arm. 

“Come at once — at once!” she whispered, in a terrifled 
voice. “ I must go home. I am ill.” 

Mrs. Leslie was a woman of tact. She saw that some- 
thing serious had happened, and that this was not the time 
to a^ questions. So she complied at once, without a word, 
accompanied the white, trembling girl down-stairs, sent 
for the carriage, and hurried her into it the moment it ar- 
rived. 

When it drove away with them, she asked Dulcie in vain 
what had happened. 

“Oh!” moaned the girl, “ I shall die! I shall die! Oh! 
what will become of me?” 

All sorts of dreadful doubts and fears took possession of 
Mrs. Leslie, but she was forced to remain with them un- 
satisfied, for the only words that the girl would utter were 
repeated asseverations that she would die. 

That her agitation was connected with the handsome 
young man who had been her companion all the evening, 
Mrs. Leslie never for an instant doubted ; but what could he 
have said? what could he have done? 

Mrs. Vernon would be very angry — would never let her 
chaperon Dulcie again ; and, urged by this fear, she said, 
almost sharply : 

“ For goodness’ sake, Dulcie, control yourself. Don’t let 
the servants see you in this state. What on earth will your 
mother say?” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mrs. Vernon was still in the drawing-room when they 
returned. She was generally glad of an excuse to sit up 


ONCE AGAIN 131 

late, and to-night she happened to have an interesting 
book. 

Dulcie saw by the light in the drawing-room that her 
mother had not retired ; she would, therefore, be forced to 
meet her. Indeed, she was rather glad of this, for she felt 
it absolutely necessary to tell her of the awful apparition of 
Noel, and to beg her assistance and co-operation against him. 
So she said hurriedly to her cousin : 

“ Do not come into the drawing-room: I must speak to 
mamma alone. And, whatever you do,” imploringly, ” do 
not let out that I met Mr. Temple either to-night or this 
morning.” 

Mrs. Leslie took the hint, and went off to her own room, 
her curiosity aroused to the highest pitch. 

Meanwhile Dulcie, still trembling and white as a sheet, 
went into the drawing-room. 

“Good heavens! what has happened? Are you ill, 
Dulcie?” cried Mrs. Vernon, at sight of the girl’s tell-tale 
face. 

Dulcie threw herself into a chair and sobbed hysteric- 
ally. 

Mrs. Vernon, who was strong-minded and had no sym- 
pa,thy with hysterics or violent demonstrations of feeling, 
said, impatiently: 

“ Do not go on in that absurd way, Dulcie! Tell me di- 
rect^ what has happened!” 

“ Oh, the most awful thing!” sobbed Dulcie, racking her 
brain to think how she should avoid all mention of Alwyne 
in the terrible avowal. 

“What? what?” cried her mother. “Tell me at once! 
What awful thing?” 

“ He was there!” almost shrieked Dulcie, and gave vent 
to redoubled expressions of emotion. 

“He! who?” said Mrs. Vernon; but she had a strong 
conviction as to who the man represented by the personal 
pronoun was. 

She rose. 

“Now, Dulcie,” she said, “for Heaven’s sake exercise a 
little self-control and tell me what has happened. ’ ’ 

“ I had been dancing, ” sobbed Dulcie, “and I was sit- 
ting out— and — and suddenly I saw a dreadful face glaring 
at me through the flowers, and then he came round the 
corner and said something about ‘ my wife!’ and fell down 
in a fit.” 

Mrs. Vernon turned as white as her daughter. In a mo- 
ment she conjured up a terrible scene of curious eyes and 
whispering tongues and her unfortunate daughter the 
heroine of a most painful esclandre. She stood as if turned 
to stone. 


132 


ONCE AGAIN. 


Who was with you?” she asked at last. “Did many 
people see this— this dreadful scene?” 

“ No,” gasped Dulcie. “ Only — the man I was dancing 
with. I left him with — with the other, and rushed away 
and found Cousin Anna, and we came off at once.” 

“ And what did you tell Anna?” 

“ Nothing— not a word,” sobbed Dulcie. 

“ Did you give her no explanation?” 

“No.” 

“ And who was the man you were dancing with?” 

“ I don’t know his name,” answered mendacious Dulcie. 

“ Do you think he heard what — what the other said?” 

“ I don’t know. He was holding him up, and I rushed 
away. And oh, mamma! what am I to do? Perhaps he 
will come here. Oh, I can’t, I won’t see him! What 
shall I do?” Dulcie’s distress was so intense, her look of 
terror so real, that Mrs. Vernon had not the heart to add 
to her wretchedness. 

“I do not know. We must think about it,” she an- 
swered. 

“Oh, mamma! for pity’s sake, take me away some- 
where! hide me! Oh, don’t let him-find me! Oh, perhaps 
if you give him money he will go away and leave me 
alone!” And this was the young lady who had been so 
ardently attached to Mr. Trevor that she had walked out 
of her mother’s house and married him clandestinely, and 
here, without any fault or crime on his part, on the very 
next occasion of their meeting she was filled with horror 
and loathing of him, and asking whether he could not be 
bought off !^ As this passed through Mrs. Vernon’s mind, 
she almost pitied Noel as much as she despised her daugh- 
ter. 

“How came I to bring such a child into the world?” she 
groaned in spirit ; but she kept the thought to herself. 

“You had better go to bed now,” she said, “and I will 
think the matter over. As soon after eight as you arc 
awake in the morning, send for me, and I will tell you 
what conclusion I have come to. Do not say a word to 
Morton of what has happened: tell her you were taken 
ill at the ball: she must think what she likes.” 

When Dulcie had left her, Mrs. Vernon sought her cousin 
with a view of eliciting what she knew or suspected. 

“ The most extraordinary thing imaginable!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Leslie. “ Ten minutes before, I had seen her dancing 
apparently in the best of spirits, and suddenly she rushed 
up to me looking as if she had seen a ghost. Fortunately, 
most of the people had ^one down to supper, and I man- 
aged to get her away without attracting much attention. 
But, my dear Margaret, what was it? She would not tell 


ONCE AGAIN. 


133 


me a word, and I could get nothing out of her except that 
she would die.” 

“ It is no very great matter, ” replied Mrs. Vernon, speak- 
ing in a light, unconcerned tone. “There was a man 
whose attentions to her gave us a little trouble last winter, 
and I fancy from what she tells me that he made rather a 
scene, and then fainted. Very disagreeable, of course, and 
poor Dulcie is not very strong-minded, you know. But 
with whom was she dancing?” 

“I really did not notice,” replied Mrs. Leslie, for all 
three ladies had made up their minds to tell each other 
stories pretty freely. ♦ 

If Mrs. Vernon had known the truth, it would have as- 
sisted her immensely in making her plans ; but it did not 
for a single instant enter her brain to consider that Mr. 
Temple had played a part, and a very important part too, 
in this painful affair. 

Little sleep visited her that night; the great question 
which occupied her brain was how this terrible affair was 
to be settled with as little scandal as possible. Noel was 
now partially recovered, though evidently still weak; 
there could be no question that he would claim his wife. 
She must, if possible, persuade him to consent to some 
weeks’ delay whilst a pretense of courtship was gone 
through, and" then he and Dulcie must be quietly remarried 
in church. She did not despair of bringing him to reason, 
and was much more occupied in thinking how Dulcie was 
to be managed. That this sudden distaste for him would 
last, Mrs. Vernon did not for an instant believe; if she had 
been, or fancied herself, so fond of him once, the feeling 
would return when they were thrown together again. In 
any case she had elected to marry him, and had no choice 
but to take the consequences. 

Noel would write or come to the house, and it would be 
best for all parties that Dulcie should be out of the way. 
Mrs. Vernon bethought her that she might send Dulcie off 
that very day to an aunt at Brighton. Eight o’clock had 
scarcely struck when there was a tap at her door, followed 
by the entrance of Dulcie, white, wide-eyed, looking the 
picture of fright and misery. 

“I have been awake since five,” she said, “but was 
afraid to disturb you before. Oh, mamma! have you 
thought of anything?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Vernon, cheerfully; “I am going to 
telegraph to your aunt Clara to know if she will take you 
in for a few days. ’ ’ 

Dulcie sighed with an air of great relief. 

“ Oh, yes,” she exclaimed. “ Anything to get away 1” 

Mrs. Vernon wrote on a telegraph form: 


134 


ONCE AGAIN 


Can you have Dulcie for a few days? Wants change. 
If so, will send her by one-fifty. Answer paid.” 

She rang for the housemaid and gave orders that it was 
to be sent at once. Then she seated herself in an arm* 
chair, and, looking at Dulcie, said quietly : 

“ We must now decide how matters are to be arranged. 
You are, as I told you, as much Mr. Trevor’s wife as 
though you had been married in church, and he can claim 
you at any moment he chooses. He will have to go 
through certain legal formalities with the court of chan- 
cery, and will be compelled, fortunately for you, to con- 
sent to your money being settled upon yourself. I shall 
endeavor to persuade him to ignore for the present the 
ceremony at the registry -office, to make a pretense of being 
engaged to you, and to marry you in church in a few weeks’ 
time.” 

”Oh, mamma!” cried Dulcie, trembling like a leaf, “can 
nothing be done? Can it not be proved illegal, or cannot I 
get a divorce?” 

“ I have told you,” replied her mother coldly, “that you 
are his wife. Nothing can alter the fact. And it seems a 
most extraordinary thing to me that, if you were so des- 
perately in love with him a few months ago that you could 
defy everything and everybody in order to marry him, you 
should now, without a shadow of reason, have changed so 
completely.” 

Dulcie sat looking the picture of misery and anguish. 

“At all events,” pursued Mrs. Vernon, “it will be best 
for you to be out of the way for the present. I will hear 
what he has to say and write, or perhaps go to you and tell 
you the result.” 

In less than an hour the answer to the telegram arrived. 
It would be quite convenient for Dulcie to go as soon as she 
liked. 

Then Morton was ordered to pack her young lady’s trunk. 
She could not be spared to accompany her, but Mrs. John 
Vernon’s maid would do everything that was necessary. 
Mrs. Vernon enjoined the strictest secrecy on Dulcie, which, 
however, was unnecessary. The girl was too thoroughly 
miserable and ashamed of the whole affair to want to con- 
fide it to any one. 

She had been gone nearly an hour when a card was 
brought to Mrs. Vernon, who was sitting at luncheon with 
Mrs. Leslie. 

“ Mr. Alwyne Temple.,"'' she read, with unfeigned annoy- 
ance. 

“ Is Mr. Temple in the drawing-room?” she asked, rather 
sharply, of the Dutler. 


ONCE AGAIN 


135 


“Yes, ma’am.” 

Why in the name of all that was disagreeable should he 
add to her perplexities by coming at this particular junct- 
ure? When the card was handed to. her, the name she 
had fully expected to read was that of Trevor. 

However, there was no help for it — he was in the house, 
and she must see him. She rose with an expression of 
great annoyance, and left Mrs. Leslie feeling rather fright- 
ened and guilty. 

Mrs. Vernon assumed her coldest, stiff est manner as she 
entered the drawing-room. Alwyne himself looked to the 
full as haughty. 

She seated herself, and motioned him to a chair. 

He began what he had to say at once with the air of a 
person who, having right on his side, is not to he intimi- 
dated by any show of aggressiveness on the part of his op- 
ponent. 

“ You will remember,” he said, stiffly, “that last winter 
at Nice I proposed for the hand of Miss Vernon.” 

Miss Vernon’s mother made a cold gesture of assent. 

“ You informed me that there was an obstacle to my suit, 
but you declined absolutely to inform me as to the nature 
of that obstacle. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vernon made another gesture of cold affirmation. 

“May I ask,” proceeded Alwyne with a particularly dis- 
agreeable and supercilious inflection of voice, “whether 
the obstacle which you declined to state was that your 
daughter has a husband already?’^' 

For a moment the room seemed to Mrs. Vernon to swim. 
Her self-possession deserted her. She had been absolutely 
unprepared for such a blow as this. 

She was silent : she could really not And one word to say. 
Then, partly recovering herself, and endeavoring to reas- 
sume her cold, stiff manner, she said : 

“ I must really ask you to explain yourself.” 

“By all means,” returned Alwyne, with alacrity. “I 
had been dancing with Mrs. Vernon — I beg her pardon, 

Mrs. , I do not know her name — and was sitting out 

with her, when suddenly our conversation was broken in 
upon by a man who asked me how I dared touch his ivife, 
and then proceeded to have a fit, in which I had the honor 
of rendering him assistance. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vernon was rent by conflicting feelings: the prin- 
cipal one was anger against her daughter. Dulcie’s unpar- 
donable duplicity filled her with wrath : she would not be 
made the scapegoat of her folly and wickedness any longer : 
let the consequences be on her own head ! Again she was 
silent for some seconds. 

“ I quite see, from the manner in which you receive my 


186 


ONCE AGAIN. 


communication,” proceeded Alwyne, almost insolently, 
” that I have discovered the real obstacle. But I must 
confess one thing astonishes me, and that is that both 
Miss Vernon or Mrs. , whatever her name is, and your- 

self allowed me to believe that I might ultimately hope. 
I presume you were counting on this — this person’s death- 
he seems to be in very indifferent health.” 

Mrs. Vernon was goaded beyond endurance by his tone. 

” I have no longer any wish to screen my daughter,” she 
said. ” Her folly is so unaccountable that I cannot pre- 
tend to extricate her from the dilemmas into which she 
is always getting herself. I shall tell you the facts of the 
case. If you are a gentleman” — and she flashed a look 
upon him which plainly intimated that she thought his 
claim to that title very doubtful— ‘‘you will consider my 
confidences sacred ; if not, you must, if you choose, pub- 
lish them to the world.” 

And she proceeded to relate to his astonished ears the 
story which we already know, together with her views and 
intentions for the future. 

Indignant as Alwyne was on his own account, he could 
not help feeling for the moment that the unfortunate 
mother had been hardly used, and he forbore to express 
his anger at the deceit which had been practiced upon 
himself, and merely said that it was very strange and a 
very bad business, and that Mrs. Vernon might rely upon 
his keeping what she had told him strictly secret. So 
they parted on better terms than might have been ex- 
pected — Alwyne going his way, stunned and perplexed at 
the behavior of his adored Dulcie, and Mrs. Vernon lean- 
ing back in her chair, filled with wrath and bitterness 
against her daughter, and determined to be rid of all re- 
sponsibility about her as soon as possible. 

She was still sitting, a prey to anger and wretchedness, 
when the butler brought her in a note. 

This simply contained a request for an interview, and 
was signed ‘‘Noel Trevor.” 

Mrs. Vernon groaned in spirit. But the interview must 
be gone through with, and she made up her mind that the 
best thing would be to get it over as soon as possible. 
She wrote an answer saying that Mr. Trevor could call as 
soon as he felt disposed, told the butler she would be at 
home only to Mr. Trevor that afternoon, sent a message to 
Mrs. Leslie that she would not drive until late, and then 
endeavored to brace her nerves for the coming encounter. 

How often she had congratulated herself upon having a 
pretty daughter! Now she only lamented bitterly that 
she had ever had a child at all. She absolutely longed 
to get rid of her and all the worry and trouble which 


ONQE AOAlh\ 


137 


she involved. Instead of the wrath which she had al- 
ways intended to pour out on Noel when she should see 
him, she now prepared to meet him with calm indiffer- 
ence and to make preparations to hand over his wife to 
him at as early a date as decency permitted. What 
Dulcie felt in the matter was of but small concern in her 
eyes. 

Only a quarter of an hour elapsed before Noel was 
ushered into her presence. He looked dreadfully haggard 
and ill; and, although she felt but scant pity for him, she 
devoutly hoped that he was not going to faint or make a 
scene. 

She bowed, without offering her hand, and pointed to a 
chair. 

“ I see,” she said, “that you are still ill. You had bet- 
ter take time to compose yourself ; w e are not likely to be 
interrupted.” 

Poor Noel sat down and made a violent effort to control 
his agitation. 

“I am quite prepared to hear all you have to say,” ob- 
served Mrs. Vernon, quietly, her one object being to pre- 
vent him from exciting himself dangerously and causing a 
catastrophe. 

“ I feel,” he said at last, in a trembling tone, “that you 
must think very badly of me. ’ ’ And he looked imploringly 
at her. 

“ It does not much matter what I think of you,” she an- 
swered, coldly. “ It will-be more to the point to talk about 
what you propose for the future. ’ ’ 

A great load was taken from the young man’s mind : no 
opposition was going to be offered to his claim, and he be- 
came calmer at once. 

“You are married to my daughter,” pursued Mrs. Ver- 
non. “Unpleasant as the fact is, it is not one that can be 
got over. The only thing that surprises me is that you 
have allowed all this time to elapse without making any 
sign.” 

“I have had a dreadful illness,” said Noel, eagerly. 
“ For weeks after the accident I was unconscious; then I 
remained in an aj)athetic state for months, scarcely re- 
membering or caring to think of anything. It is only 
within the last six weeks that my health has improved so 
much that I have been really able to think seriously about 
the future. And— and not hearing a word from — Dulcie,” 
— he hesitated over the name, as though it were a liberty 
to pronounce it — “I was in doubt how to approach her; 
and — and I thought I ought to get quite strong before— be- 
fore I ” 


1B8 ONCE AGAIN, 

He broke down, too embarrassed to know how to con- 
tinue. 

“And yet,” said Mrs. Vernon, “ you were well enough to 
go to a ball last night.” 

“ I went with the hope of seeing and speaking to her,” 
exclaimed Noel, eagerly. “I called at the house that 
morning, hoping to hear something about her, and they 
told me they were giving a dance, and pressed me to go 
to it, and I went. And then, ’ ’ added the poor lad, growing 
painfully agitated, “ when I saw her with another man’s 
arm round her— another man’s lips touching hers — I think 
I went mad ; and I don’t remember what happened after- 
ward until I was in the cab driving home.” 

And Noel hid his face in his hands, and groaned. 

This was another pleasing revelation for the mother; 
Alvryne’s arm round her daughter’s waist, his lips touching 
hers. Decidedly the sooner she had a husband to look after 
her the better. She felt almost sorry for Noel. 

“ Are you sure of what you say?” she asked, in a chill 
voice. ‘ ‘ I can hardly believe my daughter capable of such 
— such an indiscretion. Do you not think that you were, 
perhaps, under the influence of some delusion, as your brain 
cannot be very strong at present?” 

“ No! no!” he groaned. “ I saw it all too well. The in 
fernal villain!” 

“ Pray control yourself,” interposed Mrs. Vernon, coldly. 
“ But, now, what do you propose to do?” 

“ May I not see her?” cried Noel, the color flushing into 
his pale face. “ Oh, pray, pray, do let me! She did love 
me— oh, perhaps if I see her, she will explain all!” 

“You cannot see her,” returned Mrs. Vernon. “She 
has gone to Brighton ; and perhaps it will be better to tell 
you the truth, even if it is not very palatable ; she shrinks 
from the idea of seeing you.” 

“ Oh, my God!” cried Noel; and he leaned his elbows on 
the table, and the tears trickled fast through his fingers. 

He was very weak at present, poor fellow ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ You will see her, of course,” said Mrs. Vernon, feeling 
just the least bit sorry for him. “But before you can 
consider her your wife, you will have to go through a form 
of — of courtship, and to marry her in a church, as I would 
not for one moment allow the story of that disgraceful affair 
at the registry office to be known.” 

“ I will do anything — anything!” cried Noel. 

' ‘ And you will have to attend at the court of chancery 
and agree to her money being settled upon herself.” 


OISICE AGAIN. 


139 


Noei flusned. 

“You do not, I hope, think,” he cried, “that any consid- 
eration of money influenced me in the matter.” 

“Most people would think so,” returned Mrs. Vernon, 
chillingly. 

“I swear,” cried the young man, “that I never knew 
she had a penny ; never had a thought or wish but for her- 
self.” 

“I believe you have not any means of supporting a girl 
accustomed to every comfort and luxury,” observed Mrs. 
Vernon. 

Noel hung his head. 

“ I thought our love would help us to get over that,” he 
murmured. 

‘ ‘ I have frequently heard that theory, ” said Mrs. Vernon, 
contemptuously. “ But I never knew it answer in practice. 
My daughter has never in her life wanted for anything, and 
I do not think she is a girl to hear poverty and discomfort 
cheerfully.” 

Noel bit his lip and looked the picture of misery. 

“However,” proceeded Mrs. Vernon, “ when she is of age 
she will have a thousand a year, and, meantime, you will 
have to manage as best you can. I presume you intend to 
join your regiment in India?” 

“I have not communicated with my colonel, yet,” an- 
swered Noel: “ the doctor did not think me quite fit for 
duty. I suppose as I did not go out with the regiment I 
shall have to join at the depot first, unless I*can get sent 
out with a draft.” 

‘ ‘ I should think you had better go to India, if possible, ’ ’ 
said Mrs. Vernon, who, after all that she had gone through 
with Dulcie, felt that it would be a relief to get rid of her 
entirely. 

“I should like it best,” exclaimed Noel, brightening; 
“and — she— seemed quite willing in the winter. When 
may I see her?” 

‘ ‘ When she returns from Brighton, in a day or two. If 
you leave me your address, I will let you know when to 
call.” 

Noel felt that his mother-in-law was behaving much bet- 
ter than he could have expected. He had a good heart, 
and was smitten with remorse at the thought of the pain 
and grief he must have caused her. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, diffidently, “ that you must have 
rather a bad opinion of me. I hope you will forgive me 
for the trouble I have caused you. ’ ’ 

The remembrance of her wrongs rose forcibly in the 
mother’s breast, and she said, with a burst of anger: 

“Until she met you, Dulcio had never given me a mo- 


140 


ONCE AGAIN 


ment’s anxiety. She was my one hope an comfort in life. 
I looked forward to her making a good marriage— to see- 
ing her happy and well provided for. You have wrecked 
all my hopes. You taught her to deceive me ; you inflicted 
on me the severest blow I ever had in my life : take care 
that your sin does not recoil on your own head, and that 
she does not deceive you ! I cannot unmarry you : all I now 
wish is to see and hear as little of both of you in the future 
as possible. ’ ’ 

Noel was crushed : he had no answer to make, and rose, 
looking very humble and crestfallen, to take leave. He 
was even forgetting, in his embarrassment, to give his ad- 
dress. 

“Where are you to be found?” asked Mrs. Vernon, 
stiffly ; and he wrote his address on a card with a trem- 
bling hand, and then, bowing, left the room, as his hostess 
did not attempt to proffer her hand. 

When he had reached home, and had leisure to think, 
he was assailed by all manner of painful doubts. Dulcie, 
his darling, his dear, sweet little wife, as he had thought 
of her over and over again, shrank from him — had gone 
away to avoid him ! Did she care for that other man in 
whose embrace — curse him! — he had seen her? His blood 
boiled at the recollection. Then Mrs. Vernon’s words came 
back to him : 

“ Take care that she does not deceive you 1” 

He had imagined that her silence since the accident had 
been the result of fear of her mother ; he had felt sure that 
she would be happy at being restored to him, though 
that was hardly possible, as he would be at finding her 
once again. He had never realized the possibility of 
another man stepping in between them. 

He felt that he must see her— must know the truth from 
her own lips ; and he resolved to go to Brighton that very 
evening and endeavor to find her. 

Although he and Alwyne went down in the same train 
on the same quest, neither happened to come across nor 
to guess at the other’s vicinity. For Mrs. Vernon had also 
mentioned to Alwyne that her daughter liad gone to her 
aunt in Brighton, little imagining that now he knew she 
had a husband the young man would dream of following 
her, or of attempting to see her again. But Alwyne, after 
his first ebullition of wrath, returned afresh to his tender- 
ness for Dulcie, and, feeling sure that she was in reality 
devoted to him and indifferent to his rival, all sorts of wild 
projects of carrying her off seethed in his mind, though he 
pretended to himself that he only intended to reproach her 
and bid her farewell forever. 

Noel spent the morning after his arrival at Brighton in 


ONCE AGAIN 


141 


pursuit of his wife. He had to keep reminding himself that 
she was his wife, his lawful wife ; for the most distressing 
doubts of her love harassed his brain. It was a fine morn- 
ing, and she was sure to be out somewhere : at Brighton 
people never stay in-doors. He walked along the King’s 
Road, the Esplanade, went on the West Pier, scanning 
every face eagerly. Then he took a victoria, and, bidding 
the man drive slowly; went up to Kemp Town. And when 
lie very nearly reached the end, he caught sight of a pretty 
figure in a neat, tailor-made dress, sauntering along list- 
lessly, and his heart gave a great bound as he recognized 
Mrs. Noel Trevor. He stopped the carriage, paid the 
driver, and walked slowly after her, so agitated and trem- 
bling that he was forced to stop for a moment and support 
himself by the wooden rail. 

Dulcie took a seat in one of the embrasures and looked 
out seaward. There was no one near, except a nurse-girl 
lazily pushing a perambulator, and Noel waited until she 
was out of earshot before he approached. 

Then he came close up and said, in a low voice : 

‘ ‘ Dulcie !’ ’ 

The girl gave a little gasp of terror and looked at him 
with atfrighted eyes. He sat down beside her, and she 
started up, as if for fright. 

“ For God’s sake !” cried poor Noel, “don’t look at me 
like that!” 

And he laid a detaining hand on her arm, and trembled 
violently, half from emotion, half from weakness. 

“Have you forgotten?” he went on. “Don’t you care 
for me any longer?” 

A shrinking horror of him crept through Dulcie’ s veins. 
She remained motionless, speechless, looking at him with 
cold distaste. How had she ever cared for him? How 
inferior lie was in every way to Alwyne! and now he 
looked so shrunk and ill and haggard, he was almost re- 
pulsive to her. She felt no pity for his distress — nothing 
but repugnance. His eyes were fixed on her whilst he 
awaited for some answer to his impassioned words, but 
none came; she was thinking how she could get away from 
him. 

“Dulcie,” he said again, imploringly, “after all I have 
suffered, have you nothing to say to me? Don’t you care 
for me any longer?” 

“No,” she answered, remorselessly. “ I do not care for 
you. You got some bad influence over me and persuaded 
me to deceive my mother. I was so young I did not know 
any better. It was very wicked and cruel of you.” 

Great H^ven ! this was his reception, after all his ten- 


ONCE AGAIN 


der dreams of his darling wife and of their meeting and re- 
union ! 

“ What has changed you?” he asked, in a hollow, miser- 
able voice. “You did care forme.” Then, with sudden 
passion, drawing near to her, “ Oh, my darling, how can 
you be so cruel to me?” 

“ Do not touch me!” she cried, crouching into the corner 
of the seat; “ do not come near me!” 

A wild feeling of jealousy surged through Noel’s heart 
as he remembered the scene at the ball. 

“ You could bear another man to touch you — to put his 
arm round you — to kiss your lips!” he cried, violently. 
“ My God ! why had I not strength to kill him? But I will 
hunt him down! I will ” 

He stopped suddenly ; a horrible faintness was creeping 
over him ; he felt that he must control himself or he would 
swoon or die. 

He leaned back for a moment, gasping, so pale and hag- 
gard that Dulcie was terrified. 

She remained speechless in her crouching posture, and 
after a few moments Noel was able to speak with more 
self - command. 

“ I am not very strong yet,” he said, and then added, 
with a tremulous yearning in his voice: “Why do you 
look like that? Why should you be afraid of me? Do I not 
love you better than anything in the world?” 

But his words of tenderness were hateful to Dulcie. She 
had not a grain of either love or pity for him. She said 
obstinately to herself that he had entrapped and deceived 
her. He was the obstacle and stumbling-block in the way 
of her happiness. She even had a shadowy idea that if 
he would give her up she might still be happy with Al- 
wyne. 

“ What is the use of your loving me?” she said, looking 
away at the sea. “ I do not love you ; I never shall. If 
you really cared for me, you would go away, and give me 
a chance of being happy.” 

“ With him?” asked Noel, in a cold, bitter voice. “ You 
do not seem to realize that you are my wife ; that I have 
the right to claim you now, this moment ; that I can, if I 
choose, take you away with me here and now, and that no 
one can stop me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I will not go with you, ’ ’ cried Dulcie. ‘ ‘ I would rather 
throw myself into the sea. You entrapped and cheated 
me into marrying you ; you only wanted my money. And 
now, if it were not for you, I could marry a man whom I 
love, and who is rich, and Avhom mamma would be only 
too glad for me to marry. I will never, never your wife. 
I hate you!” 


ONCE AGAIN 


143 


Fear and dislike of him had worked the girl up almost 
to frenzy. She looked at him with fierce defiance. She 
seemed capable of throwing herself into the sea to escape 
him. 

Noel looked at her for a moment, and then slowly 
turned his eyes seaward. The bitterness of death seenaed 
to creep over him ; love, youth, life, wrestled in a dying 
agony on his heart. It was ingulfed as though all those 
shining, sunlit waves had gone over it and stifled every 
atom of hope and joy in the cruel sands below. 

Morning after morning, as life and strength had come 
slowly back to him, he had thought and dreamed of this 
fair, pretty face ; but in his visions there was a tender 
love-lighj) in the eyes, happy smiles dimpled the mouth, 
and he had indulged in the most blissful anticipations of 
their meeting— of her joy at his recovery — of the blessed 
future that was to atone for all the anguish he had gone 
through. Was this pale girl, with hatred in her looks, 
and wild words of anger and defiance on her lips, the 
cherished darling of his dreams and thoughts? or was this 
scene some wild fantasy of his still distraught brain? No, 
it was all too true. He was wide awake. Dulcie was be- 
side him. Whilst he lay battling with death, another man 
had come and stolen her from him, even as he had stolen 
her from her mother. His own guilt was borne in upon 
him with cruel force. 

And now she hated him. Gracious heaven! she had 
taunted him with having sought her for her money; she 
had sworn that, sooner than be his, she would throw her- 
self into the sea. Oh, God ! at that moment how he wished 
that he was lying under those glittering waves, with his 
darling locked in his arms — his darling of other days; 
not this frightened, angry, unloving woman beside him. 
The future seemed to grow clear to him as he sat there, 
his heart full of deadly despair ; he must go away to India, 
and by some means or other set her free. Would he force 
her to unwilling bonds? What joy or pleasure could he 
have of her, since she hated him? 

He sat motionless, his eyes seemed to gaze at the restless 
waters, patched with blue and purple and pale green, with 
here and there a tiny fleck of foam on the crest of a wave- 
let. 

Dulcie watched him with bated breath at first, and then, 
as he made no sign or movement, she began to speculate 
upon the possibility of getting away from him. Suddenly, 
as he seemed lost to consciousness, she darted up and fled 
away. Noel did not move, did not even turn to glance after 
her ; he had looked his last upon her ; this fair girl whom 


144 


ONCE AGAIN 


he had loved so tenderly, upon whom all his hopes had 
centered, was to be no more to him henceforth forever. 

He did not know clearly what he meant to do, only that 
he would go far away from her and never trouble her more ; 
he would get out to his regiment as soon as possible, and 
when the wide seas were between them she, at all events, 
would rejoice. 

Meantime, Dulcie, with a beating heart, gained her 
aunt’s house, and flew to her room to compose her agitated 
feelings and features before going down to lunch. 

Mrs. John Vernon was a stout, comfortable lady, by no 
means of an inquisitive or suspicious turn of mind, and too 
much absoi-bed in her pugs and birds to take much interest 
in her own species. She observed nothing unusual in 
Dulcie’ s manner, and never dreamed, simple-minded lady, 
of the very dramatic circumstances in which her niece was 
placed. 

Every day, winter and summer, if the weather was at all 
passable, Mrs. John Vernon took her drive with her pugs. 
She invited Dulcie to accompany her this afternoon^ but 
Dulcie excused herself, and her aunt did not press the mat- 
ter; the pugs would be more comfortable and less cramped. 

The carriage came round, with its fat horses and sleek 
coachman, the perfect type of a wealthy widow’s equi- 
page, and Dulcie saw aunt and pets depart. She re- 
mained for some time at the window, looking out at the 
sea, thinking to herself that she was the most unfortunate 
girl in the world, and wondering what the end of all this 
dreadful business was to be. As she sat there, the sea 
faded from her eyes ; the sound of the waves ceased from 
her ears; she was hick in the bower at the ball, with Al- 
wyne’s arm round her, his voice breathing sweet words 
which troubled her brain and senses. 

She started as the door was flung open, and the butler, 
with a beaming face, announced “ Mr. Temple.” 

He was an old servant, and of a benevolent disposition; 
he saw, or fancied he saw, why Miss Dulcie had declined to 
drive, and thought he was indeed doing something ex^* 
tremely pleasing to her by ushering in this handsome 
young gentleman. 

Alwyne had looked in a Brighton directory, and, finding 
the name of Mrs. John Vernon, had concluded she must be 
the aunt whom Dulcie was visiting. He had no idea of 
what he meant to say if he saw her ; he did not know that 
he would even see her, much less see her alone ; and when 
he found himself face to face with her he was almost as 
much embarrassed as she was. Both commanded them- 
selves sufficiently ere the door closed on the butler to ex- 
change the ordinary, commonplace greeting in the ordi' 


ONCE again 


145 


nary manner, but after that there was a pause. Dulcie 
stood looking down, AJwyne went to the window. Two 
feelings were struggling in him, delight at seeing his be- 
loved again, and an aggrieved sense that he had been badly 
used. The latter obtaining the mastery, he turned, and 
coming toward her, said in a reproachful tone : 

“Why did you deceive me?'’ 

Dulcie proceeded to defend herself. Her nature was de- 
ficient in generosity and in a sense of justice ; like all weak 
persons, she was wont to defend herself at the expense of 
some one else. On this occasion, poor Noel, against whom 
her mind was entirely poisoned, was the scapegoat. She 
depicted him as a villain and seducer of the deepest dye ; 
she proved clearly to Alwyne’s thirsting ears how entirely 
innocent she had been throughout — an unhappy dupe in 
the hands of a designing man. And Dulcie related with 
triumph the interview of the morning in which she had 
poured her hatred and contempt upon him — described the 
scene with glistening eyes and raised voice, as though she 
had been some brave and virtuous heroine bearding an un- 
scrupulous villain. 

Alwyne forgot the wrong this fair creature had done him 
as he sat listening to her, drinking in with rapture the 
story of the discomfiture of his rival, and filled with a sort 
of heroic ardor of championship, and a great but vague idea 
that he was going to be her deliverer, though at the present 
moment he could not quite see how. 

“ We must do something to rid you of this ruffian!” he 
said, excitedly, getting up and pacing the room. 

“ I will be grateful to you forever,” cried Dulcie. “ Oh, 
you don’t know how he frightened me this morning with 
his violence. He said I was his wife and he could take me 
away then and there if he chose and no one could hinder 
him!” 

Alwyne swore under his breath. This was, indeed, an 
awful contingency. No man, he said, hotly, could be black- 
guard enough to force a woman who hated him to live with 
him. 

“ I will kill myself first!” cried Dulcie, excitedly. 

“No, darling!” replied Alwyne, soothingly; “you must 
not talk like that. I will move heaven and earth to free 
you from him. Surely there must be a way out of it. I 
believe myself it was a bogus marriage. But remember 
one thing : if he should attempt to carry you off by force, 
you must escape and come straight to me, and we will see 
then,” cried Alwyne, looking very handsome and deter- 
mined, “whether any mortal power can get you away from 
me!” 

For a long time they talked eagerly over all sorts of pos- 


146 


ONCE AGAIN. 


sibilities and contingencies. Alwyne declared that he would 
go up to London and consult his solicitor, and between 
them they would assuredly find some means to free her 
from this hateful bond. He talked both himself and Dulcie 
into quite a cheerful frame of mind, and when he took leave 
of her, both their hearts beat high with hope. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Mrs. Vernon, after her two interview’s, was in a state of 
irritation against her daughter that she could scarcely con- 
trol. She recognized the fact that to contend with this 
seemingly weak girl w^as like buffeting water. Now she 
had but one desire, and that was to marry her to Noel ; for 
to go on living under the same roof with her on amicable 
terms w^as more than Mrs. Vernon felt capable of. She 
could not w^atch and dog her every step and movement ; 
and duplicity now seemed like second nature to Dulcie. 
The mother had not patience to fight against the weapon 
she so abhorred and despised. Besides, Dulcie was Noel’s 
wife, and could not be unmarried ; so the sooner he carried 
off his prize the better. And in her heart Mrs. Vernon bit- 
terly wished him joy of her. 

After a great deal of reflection, she decided to go down 
the next day to Brighton and bring Dulcie back. She did 
not intend to have any discussion with her if it could be 
avoided, but as soon as convenient after their return she 
would send for Noel, bring the young couple face to face, 
and let them settle matters themselves. As for Dulcie’ s 
reluctance, she cared not one straw ; she had married him, 
and must abide b;y the consequences. 

The day after her two interviews, Mrs. Vernon betook 
herself to Brighton by the one-fifty train, which should 
have arrived at three-fifteen, but was twenty minutes late. 
Her sister-in-law would think it odd her coming to fetch 
Dulcie after a stay of tw^enty-four hours ; but there were 
much graver considerations involved than Mrs. John 
Vernon’s surprise. 

The fly which conveyed her from the station had arrived 
within half a dozen doors of her sister-in-law’s house when 
a young man came running down the steps with an excited 
and triumphant expression of countenance, and Mrs. 
Vernon was almost transfixed with anger and astonishment 
as she recognized Alwyne. He did not see her, but w’ent 
on his way rejoicing. 

‘‘What can I do with such a creature!” cried the dis- 
tracted mother, between her teeth, feeling a violent desire 
to fly at and beat this hopelessly good-for-nothing daughter 
of hers. 


ONCE AGAIN 


117 


3h9 had to control herself by an immense effort to meet 
the smiling butler, an old servant in the family, with an 
answering smile, to inquire after Mrs. John, and whether 
Miss Dulcie was at home. 

And then she was ushered into the drawing-room, where 
the dear girl was nursing all sorts of charming dreams. 

The mother could scarcely control her voice to speak. 
She did not intend to have any discussion now ; if once she 
let loose the flood-gates of her wrath, she felt that she 
would hardly be answerable for her words or actions. She 
glacially bade Dulcie go at once and see to her things being 
packed, as they were to return to London by the five o’clock 
train. Dulcie divined that some dreadful catastrophe had 
happened, and was only too glad to escape from the room 
and assist her aunt’s maid, who plied her with many ex- 
pressions of wonder and regret at her short stay, to pack. 
Mrs. Vernon sat in the drawing-room, staring at the sea, 
with a horrible Aveight at her heart— a weight of anger and 
despair. She was a clever woman ; as a rule, she had no 
difficulty in circumventing people, and making those at all 
events over whom she had any authority do what she 
pleased ; but this frail, foolish girl utterly baffled her and 
set her plans at naught. What had Alwyne been doing 
there? She, of course, imagined that Dulcie had informed 
him of her whereabouts. From the satisfied expression of 
his face, the interview with Dulcie must have been a pleas- 
ing one ; possibly she had consented to fly with him. 

The unhappy mother determined to send for Noel the very 
next morning and to fix the earliest date possible for the 
marriage in church : it would not have required much per- 
suasion on Noel’s part now to get her consent to carry off 
Dulcie with no further ceremony than the one which had 
already been performed in the registry-office. 

As good fortune would have it, Mrs. John did not return 
from her drive before it was time for her guests to leave : 
so, bidding the butler make her excuses, and promising to 
write, Mrs. Vernon carried her daughter off to London. 

She did not speak one word during the journey : indeed, 
words would have choked her. It was no use asking for 
explanations: she would only be met by falsehood. At 
dinner, and during the evening, not one word was ex- 
changed between mother and daughter: each talked in 
turn to Mrs. Leslie ; and she, though devoured by curiosity 
to know wffiat had happened, feigned not to remark any- 
thing unusual, and chatted away gayly. She knew it was 
hop^ess to expect a communication from Mrs. Vernon, but 
she hoped to extract some explanation from gentle and 
pliable Dulcie. When they were alone for a moment she 
criod : 


148 


ONCE AGAIN. 


“My dear child, what is all this terrible mystery about?” 

But Dulcie, with an uneasy smile, declared that it was 
nothing— nothing at all— and would not be beguiled into a 
word of confidence. She distrusted every one but Alwyne. 

As for Morton, she was on tenter-hooks, and did not fail 
to ask her young lady point-blank what was going on, and 
why Mr. Trevor and Mr. Temple had both been to see her 
mamma; but Dulcie obstinately refused to answer her, and 
Morton was in high dudgeon. 

After dinner Mrs. Vernon wrote a note to Noel request- 
ing him to call the following morning. His first impulse 
on reading it was to excuse himself ; but on second thoughts 
he decided that he owed it to Mrs. Vernon to explain why 
he was going away without claiming his wife, lest she 
should conceive an unjust idea of him and his motives. 
He would not have risked seeing Dulcie again, but he be- 
lieved her to be at Brighton, which he had left almost im- 
mediately after their painful interview. 

Mrs. Vernon had given private orders to the butler that 
when Mr. Trevor arrived he was to be ushered into the 
drawing-room and she was to be told that some one wished 
to see her — no name was to be mentioned before the other 
ladies. She anticipated the possibility of Dulcie’s flying to 
her room and locking herself in if she became aware that 
Noel was in the house. 

When Noel arrived and Mrs. Vernon went to the draw- 
ing-room to receive him, her feelings were of quite a differ- 
ent nature from any she could have entertained for him a 
week previously. She rather wished to propitiate him ; in- 
stead of the anger and contempt she had felt for him, she 
was now disposed to regard him with a certain amount of 
respect, and was almost afraid of his learning her daugh- 
ter’s shortcomings, lest he should be less ready to accept 
the serious responsibility of taking charge of her. 

To-day, as she advanced to meet him, her manner was 
by many degrees more cordial ; she even offered him her 
hand. She was ^hocked to see how ill he looked and to re- 
mark the melancholy written in every line of his wan face. 
She was even a little sorry for him. She did not like the 
hopeless expression that he wore; it augured ill for her 
plans and wishes. But she feigned not to remark anything, 
and said, in a cheerful voice : 

“I think we had better settle about your marriage as 
soon as possible. This state of things is very unsatisfac- 
tory.” 

If she expected a brightening of Noel’s face and an 
ardent assent to her words, she must have been disap- 
pointed. If possible, a deeper gloom spread itself over his 
facej and he looked persistently at the carpet. 


ONCE AGAIN, 


149 


“You do not seem very anxious,” exclaimed Mrs. Ver- 
non, a flush rising to her face and a considerable tartness 
lending itself to her voice. 

He looked up at her. 

“Do you know that I have seen — your daughter?” he 
asked. 

“Seen her? How? When? Where?” cried Mrs. Ver- 
non. 

‘ ‘ Yesterday morning, at Brighton. I went there in the 
hope of seeing her, and I met her out walking, and — 
and ” 

“And what?” 

“ She said ” — and poor Noel’s voice faltered — “ that she 
hated me, and would rather kill herself than be my wife. 
And, oh, my God!” cried the poor lad, “ she said she loved 
him 

He buried his face in his hands, and tears oozed through 
his thin fingers. Mrs. Vernon wondered to herself how 
much exasperation it was possible to endure without apo- 
plexy supervening. She did not believe that, in the record 
of mothers and daughters, mother had ever been so tried 
as she. Was this girl utterly devoid of all sense— of all de- 
cency? 

Her manner to Noel softened consideiably. She almost 
felt like a shopwoman offering damaged goods which she 
was anxious to get rid of. 

“ But,” she said, after a pause, “that is nonsense. You 
are her husband, and she must accept the fate she herself 
chose. Nothing can annul the marriage, and she must 
make the best of it ; indeed, I hope, when she sees more 
of you, her affection -will return, and that all will be 
well 1’ ’ 

She was trying to bolster up her own hopes as well as 
Noel’s, but all the time a disagreeable presentiment seized 
her that neither he nor she would be able to cope with 
Dulcie. She almost regretted that he was not somewhat 
of the villain she had imagined him ; for then he would 
have carried things with a strong hand. 

“ I love her with all my heart,” groaned Noel, “ and she 

did love me, or else why ’ ’ And here he stopped short. 

Then, with a sudden inspiration, he looked up at Mrs. 
Vernon, and asked, “Has she known this man long? 

Where did she meet him, and when did ?” But he 

could not bring his voice to finish the sentence. 

A half -frightened recollection of her own share in the 
catastrophe rushed through Mrs. Vernon’s brain. She re- 
membered that it was she who had given Dulcie to under- 
stand that her marriage was not legal, and that it was in 


150 


ONCE AGAIN 


consequence of this representation that the girl had consid- 
ered herself free to accept Alwyne’s attentions. 

But for the moment she felt it impossible to confess this 
to Noel. 

“We met him at Nice,” she answered, with some hesi- 
tation. “He is the nephew of an old school-friend of 
mine, with whom we were traveling.” 

“.^d this,” cried poor Noel, “must have been not a 
month after our marriage!” 

“You must remember, ” pleaded Mrs. Vernon, “that she 
had heard nothing of you— that she did not even know if 
the marriage was legal.” 

Noel interrupted her with flashing eyes. 

“ I will never believe,” he cried, “that she would have 
doubted me, unless some one had influenced her against 
me.” 

There was a moment’s silence, during Avhich Mrs. Ver- 
non was flghting a severe battle with herself. She pos- 
sessed in a marked degree the truthful and honorable in- 
stincts which, as a rule, the sterner sex are exclusively 
credited with, but which may yet be found in many women, 
whilst they are absent from many men. 

She abhorred lying and deceit, and she was naturally a 
fearless and courageous woman: indeed, from the inde- 
pendent life she had so long led, she had been unaccus- 
tomed to fear anything or any one. She was proud, and 
nothing could gall her so much as to be proved to have 
acted unworthily. It was less difiicult to her to confess 
herself wrong than to bear to be accused by another per- 
son. 

For a moment it was a hard flght ; then the honorable 
instinct prevailed. 

“ I will be quite straightforward with you,” she said, and 
her voice involuntarily assumed a haughty accent. ‘ ‘ When 
my daughter returned home on the day of the accident, 
and I learned the truth, I did not for a moment believe the 
marriage to be- binding, and I told her so. And when, 
later, I learned that it was, I did not undeceive her, think- 
ing she might commit some fresh imprudence. And, be- 
sides,” hesitating, for it was hardly a pleasant thing to say, 
“ you were in such a critical condition that it was not sup- 
posed you would recover. In which case,” with some con- 
fusion, “ there would have been no occasion for any one to 
know anything more of the matter.” 

Noel saw it all now, and with the impulse of a lover, im- 
mediately shifted the blame from the shoulders of Dulcie 
to those of her mother. It was clear to him he had been 
maligned, traduced, blackened to his darling; she had been 


ONCE AGAIN 


151 


made to doubt and hate him, to believe him capable of un- 
speakable villainy. 

After a pause he said, in a voice of righteous indigna- 
tion : 

“ Then it was you who set her against me and paved the 
way for another man.” 

Mrs. Vernon was exceedingly human, and had a consid- 
erable temper. After making an enormous sacrifice of 
feeling to behave fairly and honorably, to be met with this 
accusation, and to see that Noel held her responsible for 
all that had occurred, was more than she could bear, and 
she struck out sharply in return. 

” You see,” she said, in the quiet voice which those who 
knew her best most feared, “ I could hardly imagine that, 
after being so much devoted to you and ready to sacrifice 
everything for your sake, my daughter would, a couple of 
months later, be equally well disposed to receive the at- 
tentions of another man. However,” changing her tone 
abruptly, “the moment that I perceived what was going 
on, I told Dulcie that she was your wife, and forbade Mr. 
Temple to see her again.” 

“ And did you tell him the truth?” cried Noel, rather in 
the tone of a grand inquisitor. 

“ No,” replied Mrs. Vernon, striking out again. “ I am 
not given to publishing disgraceful family secrets. ’ ’ 

“ Disgraceful!” cried Noel. 

“ Yes,” returned Mrs. Vernon, calmly, with an unflinch- 
ing regard, “ disgraceful 

Noel subsided. He knew he had done wrong, and he 
was not of a temperament to brazen it out. His head 
sank again, and he resumed his scrutiny of the carpet. 

Having got the best of him, Mrs. Vernon was disposed 
to be merciful. 

‘ ‘ Kecriminations, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ are never of any use. Let 
us be practical, and consider the best way out of the 
dilemma. I will send for Dulcie, and will tell her in your 
presence that there is only one thing for her to do, which 
is to submit to the inevitable.^ 

“No! no!” cried Noel. “How can I take her against 
her will?” 

“Then may I ask what you propose?” inquired Mrs. 
Vernon, impatiently. 

“ I am going to try to get out to my regiment in India. 
And then,” with a profound sigh, “I shall never trouble 
her again.” 

This magnanimous suggestion was very far from meet- 
ing with Mrs. Vernon’s approval. 

“A delightful position, truly, for my daughter!” she 
exclaimed. “ A wife without a husband! No! I will not 


ONCE AGAIN 


m. 

bear the responsibility of her, and I shall not permit you 
to shirk yours. If you go to India, she must accompany 
you. ’ ’ 

“Is it my fault?’' cried Noel, in accents of deepest re- 
proach. “Would I not give my right hand to win back 
the affection she felt for me last winter? I love her with 
all my soul : do you think I want to go away and leave 
her — to him?” 

“If you leave her it probably will be to him,” replied 
Mrs. Vernon, tartly. “ Pray, Mr. Trevor, be a man: make 
use of your authority : it is perfectly impossible for things 
to go on in this way. I shall now send for Dulcie. You 
must insist on your rights, and I shall support you.’’’ Be- 
fore he could say a word, she had rung the bell. 

“ Ask Miss Dulcie to come to me for a moment,” she said 
blandly to the butler. 

A minute later, Dulcie, all unsuspecting, obeyed the 
summons. 

When she caught sight of Noel, she turned ashen pale 
and trembled in every limb. He rose to meet her, but she 
did not even greet him by so much as a word. He threw 
an agonized glance at her mother which said plainly, “You 
see. ’ ’ 

“ Dulcie,” said Mrs. Vernon, gently, “ I have sent for you 
that we may talk matters over. Last winter, of your own 
free will and consent, you walked out of my house to marry 
Mr. Trevor. By the consequences of that step you must 
abide. You are his wife, and nothing can alter the fact. 
The law is on his side, and, if he chooses, he can compel 
you to live with him ; and I am not disposed to deny his 
position. If you were so much attached to him a few 
months ago, there is surely no ground for your altered 
feelings now, as he has done nothing to wound or offend 
you. Indeed, the severe suffering he has undergone ought 
to give him a greater claim on your sympathy and affec- 
tion. I hope^that when you have talked the matter over 
together you will recognize what your duty is. Under the 
circumstances, I shall not feej justified in keeping you from 
your husband, and you must not regard this as your home 
m the future.” 

Dulcie remained with downcast eyes. She did not speak 
a word in answer, but sat wirh a fixed, dogged expression 
in her face which augured ill for Noei. 

After waiting to give her an opportunity of speaking, 
Mrs. Vernon rose and went to the door. 

‘ ‘ I will leave you for a little, ’ ’ she said to Noel. ‘ ‘ I hope 
you will be able to persuade her.” 

The two young people, left alone together, remained 
speechless. Dulcie preserved her obstinate expression, and 


ONCE AGAIN 


153 


Noel gazed wistfully at her, longing yet not daring to ap- 
proach her, to take her in his arms, to implore her love, her 
pity, her forgiveness even, though he had committed no 
crime against her. 

At last he said, in a broken voice : 

“Dulcie, won’t you speak to me? You used to love me; 
and what in Heaven’s name have I done that you should 
be so changed?” 

Still that dogged, obstinate silence which is more trying 
than the fiercest invectives and recriminations. 

“ Dulcie !” and he moved diffidently nearer to her, “ won’t 
you speak to me?” 

Still silence. 

He tried to take her hand, but she dragged it away from 
him. 

“Did I not tell you at Brighton,” she cried, roused at 
last, “what I felt for you? And yet you come here again 
to persecute and torment me, and to set mamma more 
against me and make her behave worse to me than she has 
done already!” 

“ I never meant to have seen you again,” returned Noel. 

‘ ‘ I was going to India— I had begun to make arrangements 
about it— but your mother wrote and asked me to come. 
I thought you were still at Brighton. But, now I am here, 
let me plead with you once again. You are not very happy 
at home; you and your mother are not on good terms: 
why— why will you not come with me? Oh, darling I I will 
devote every hour of my life to making you happy : I will 
be your slave: you shall not have a wish ungratified if 
I can help it. Dulcie, my own. wife! won’t you come to 
me?” 

All the passion of which he was capable was expressed in 
his voice, but she only shrunk from him with a gesture of 
distaste and disgust. 

“I hate you,” she said, cruelly; “and if you take me 
away by force I will kill myself. What pleasure can it be, ’ ’ 
and she began to whimper, ‘ ‘ to persecute and torment a 
woman who does not care for you? If I were a man I 
should have too much pride.” 

“ But since you are my wife? — since I have the right to 
takei you?” he answered, his voice hardening for a mo- 
ment, and a look that frightened he^ coming into his 
eyes. 

She burst into sobs. 

“ Then I will kill m,yself !” she repeated. 

Dulcie was the last girl in the world to carry out such a 
threat— she was far too great a coward— but she thought it 
a good way of intimidating him, 


154 


ONCE AGAIN 


He sat down again, hid his face in his hands, and 
groaned. 

What was he to do? Why had he come here to fight the 
battle ovei* again? He had gone through all this misery 
yesterday, and he had made up his mind about the future, 
and now he had been compelled to a futile repetition of his 
wretchedness. Some men might take pleasure in forcing 
themselves on a reluctant woman, her terror and repug-* 
iiance might have lent piquancy to the situation in their 
eyes. 

But Noel was not one of these. ^ 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Dulcie was buoying herself up with the hopes which Al- 
wy ne had inspired in her. He was going to his lawyer ; he 
would leave no stone unturned to find a way of annulling 
and making void this marriage, and then he would marry 
her and their life was to be one of ideal bliss. With this 
thought firmly rooted in her head, Dulcie was scarcely 
likely to turn anything but a deaf ear to Noel’s pleadings. 
He was her foe ; Alwyne her knight and deliverer. Her 
mother was equally her enemy, trying merely out of spite 
to force her into the arms of a man she hated. It suited 
her mother’s purpose now to declare the marriage irrevo- 
Crible, but Dulcie did not believe it. 

Suddenly it occurred to her that her best plan would be 
to propitiate Noel. 

“Why should you want to make me miserable?” she 
said, raising her tearful eyes to his face. “It is not my 
fault that I no longer care for you. I suppose I did once, 
but that is all over now. I was told you had deceived me, 
and that it was not a real marriage, and then I got to hate^ 
you. It is no good blaming me; it is not my fault.” 

Once more the bitterness as of death crept through 
Noel’s heart; once more he roused himself to a supreme 
effort. 

“Say no more!” he cried, hoarsely; then, rising, and 
going toward the door, “I shall never trouble you again.” 
He paused a moment, as though he would have taken 
some farewell of her; then, changing his mind, he went 
out. ^ 

A few minutes later, Mrs. Vernon returned to the draw- 
ing-room to see how matters were progressing. She found 
Dulcie alone, looking out of the window. 

“Well,” she asked, sharply, “where is Mr. Trevor?” 

“ Gone,” replied Dulcie, with a sullen air. 

“And what have you settled?’’ inquired her mother. 

Dulcie did not answer, and it was only after innumerable 


GNQE AGAIN. 


155 


questions that Mrs. Vernon elicited what had happened. 
Then the flood-gates of her wrath were let loose, and she 
talked to Dulcie in a manner which succeeded in frighten- 
ing that obstinate young lady. She declared that the same 
roof should no longer cover them ; that if she disgraced her 
she would cast her off and never see or speak to her again ; 
she threatened her with all sorts of ten’ors. At last, fright- 
ened herself at the violence of her feelings and words, she 
rushed from the room and locked herself in her own room, 
a prey to the strongest emotion she had ever felt. 

She was no match for this weak, obstinate girl. What 
was she to do with her? Plan after plan chased itself 
through her mind. She thought of sending her to some 
school, where she would be placed under the strictest sur- 
veillance, and where she could neither write to nor receive 
letters from Alwyne. Then she reflected that by too harsh 
treatment she might drive Dulcie to the very disgrace she 
so greatly feared. She resolved to consult Mr. Benson, and 
ordered the brougham. Driving straight to his chambers, 
she poured out the whole dreadful story to him. He was 
amazed and shocked, and seriously concerned to see his 
usually self-possessed client a prey to such violent emotion. 

He was unable to suggest anything. If the young man 
himself would not assert his privileges and compel his wife 
to live with him, he thought there was nothing to be done 
ill the matter but to trust to time and to the young lady’s 
coming to her senses. He could not for a moment enter- 
tain the shocking possibility of so well-brought-up a girl 
eloping with Mr. Temple if she were made cognizant of the 
terrible and dangerous consequences of such a step. 

Excellent Mr. Benson, with his calm judicial ideas and 
words, gave no comfort to the distracted mother in her 
present frame of mind, and on leaving him she flung her- 
self back in her brougham in a state bordering between in- 
tense irritation and despair. For once the self-contained 
woman felt the absolute necessity of a confidante, and she 
resolved to tell Mrs. Leslie the truth. On her return she 
sent at once for her cousin, and, after first making her 
swear secrecy upon the Bible, she proceeded, to her own in- 
tense relief, to pour out the whole dreadful story to her ex- 
cited and deeply -interested relative. 

“I feel,” said Mrs. Vernon, in conclusion, “so exasper- 
ated against Dulcie that it is impossible for me to go on 
living in the same house with her — at all events for the 
present. When I remember,” and unwonted tears sprung 
to her eyes, ‘ ‘ how carefully I have brought her up, how I 
have guarded and watched over her, it is more than I can 
b^ar to think of the disgrace she has brought upon me. 
It must come out sooner or later ; I have no doubt the 


156 


ONCE AGAIN. 


servants already know everything, for I do not place the 
smallest faith in Morton’s discretion ; and, even if she were 
to be trusted, they must see that something extraordinary 
is going on.” 

Mrs. Leslie was a very good-natured woman, and felt 
sincerely sorry for her cousin. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” she cried, 
eagerly. “ Shall I take Dulcie home with me for a few 
weeks? I promise you Mr. Temple shall not get a chance 
of seeing her.” 

Mrs. Vernon seized eagerly upon her offer. 

“ Yes, yes; I should be most grateful to you. Anything 
to get her away from my sight for the present. But may 
I really trust you?” she asked, recollecting herself. “ I 
know, my dear, that you are very good-natured and rather 
weak. If Dulcie persuaded you ” 

“No, no. I assure you you may trust me,” protested 
Mrs. Leslie, eagerly. “ I will be a perfect dragon. When 
shall we go? the day after to-morrow? I must give them 
a day to prepare. I will telegraph at once.” 

Dulcie was delighted when she heard that she was to be 
handed over to Mrs. Leslie. She was quite as anxious to 
get away from her mother as her mother was to be rid of 
her, and in her heart she felt sure that she would get her 
own way with her cousin, and be able to correspond with 
Alwyne, if not to see him. 

Two days later they were on their way to Mrs. Leslie’s 
pretty little country-house. Mother and daughter had not 
exchanged a single word in the meantime, nor did they bid 
each other good-bye. Mrs. Vernon’s exasperation was so 
deep that she could not bring herself to look at or speak to 
Dulcie, and when she was once fairly out of the house her 
mother felt as though a great load were lifted from her 
heart. Bitter indeed was it to feel the love and care and 
Icindness of so many years requited by defiance and hostil 
ity, and one can scarcely wonder if for the time the 
mother’s natural affection gave way to a feeling very 
nearly akin to dislike. 

Now it was Dulcie’ s turn to tell her story to Mrs. Leslie, 
and that kindly-disposed lady was a little shocked to find 
herself sympathizing in turn "with the girl and looking upon 
her somewhat in the light of a heroine of romance. Not, 
she gave her clearly to understand, that she meant to 
allow any interviews with Mr, Temple ; besides, she could 
not imagine, she said, that Dulcie would wish to do any- 
thing so wrong as to receive unlawful and compromising 
attentions. But Dulcie soon talked her into the belief that 
her marriage with Noel was, through Alwyne’s influence, 
speedily to be made null and void. And then Why, 


ONCE AGAIN 157 

of course, then, Mrs. Leslie assented, it would be a different 
matter altogether. 

The first thing Dulcie did was, unknown to her cousin, 
to write and furnish Alwyne with her address, together 
with the details of her mother’s violence and the discom- 
fiture of Noel. She was exceedingly anxious, too, to hear 
the result of his visit to his lawyer. Alwyne, meantime, 
was in a state of great perplexity and distress. He had 
driven with a confident heart to his lawyer’s chambers, 
but had issued thence crestfallen and despairing. For, 
after hearing all that Alwyne could tell him, the man of 
law decided that the marriage was legal and binding, in 
spite of certain irregularities, and that Noel had only to 
satisfy the court of chancery on the subject of the young 
lady’s fortune, after which he could carry her off as soon 
as he pleased. And then the lawyer gave him a signifi- 
cant hint about the danger of tampering with a ward in 
chancery. 

Alwyne fumed and fretted himself nearly into a fever. 
This self-willed young man could not endure to be thw’arted, 
and told himself that he loved Dulcie passionately, madly, 
and that without her he could not live. His one desire 
now was to see her; so, when he received her letter, he 
wrote off by return post imploring her to manage an inter- 
view somehow or other, and promising to tell her all that 
he had done in the meantime. The all did not amount to 
much, unless he had reckoned up the ragings and curs- 
ings which formed a considerable item in his day’s em- 
ployment. Dulcie, he vowed to himself, must and should 
be his. His intentions were strictly honorable ; what did 
he ask better than to make her his wife? but, since Fate 

would not allow that, why, then But he did not permit 

himself to dwell on the alternative. 

Dulcie now began to cast about in her mind how the 
meeting was to be effected. She had become so versed in 
duplicity that she no longer had any scruples ; indeed, she 
argued to herself that she had been driven to it by her 
mother’s harsh and unkind treatment. 

Mrs. Leslie had accepted an invitation for them both the 
week following to a smart garden-party four miles distant, 
and was looking forward to it with some little excitement. 
This would be Dulcie’ s opportunity. She would feign ill- 
ness on the day, having previously apprised Alwyne of her 
intention, only cautioning him not to come unless it should 
be a thoroughly clear day. 

Meantime, she behaved in so exemplary a way that Mrs, 
Leslie’s fears were set at rest, and she wrote most encour- 
aging letters to Mrs. Vernon. Dulcie, she said, seemed ex- 
tremely happy in the country — was veiy amiable and cheer- 


15S ONCE AGAIN 

ful, and gave her no trouble or anxiety whatever. She 
appeared quite reconciled to her fate, now she was no longer 
in fear of being claimed by Mr. Trevor. The day of the 
garden-party arrived. When Dulcie came down to break- 
fast, she complained of a slight headache, but made light 
of it, and declared that a turn in the garden would no doubt 
put her right. As the morning v/ore on, however, she be- 
came gradually worse, and by lunch-time she had retired 
to bed, pulled down the blinds, and answered Mrs. Leslie’s 
tender inquiries in a faint and languid voice. She was re- 
peating her little ruse at Nice with perfect success. 

This sudden illness was a severe blow to Mrs. Leslie, who 
had been looking forward to chaperoning her pretty and 
elegant cousin at the party. The day, too, was lovely — 
everything that could be desired. 

Mrs. Leslie proposed staying at home to nurse Dulcie, but 
of this she would not hear, averring that it was simply one 
of the ordinary headaches to which she was at times sub- 
ject, and that the only remedy was complete quiet. So at 
four o’clock Mrs. Leslie drove off in her pony-carriage 
rather sad and disconsolate. No sooner had the sound of 
wheels died away than Dulcie sprung up, put on her pret- 
tiest frock, recurled her fringe, and, going down -stairs, 
placed herself at the drawing-room window, which com- 
manded a view of visitors arriving. Twenty minutes later, 
she beheld Alwyne coming up the drive, and flew to open 
the door for him. If his visit could be made without the 
knowledge of the servants, whose offices were all at the 
back of the house, so much the better. 

A minute later he was in the drawing-room, and she was 
in his arms. To do Dulcie justice, she really felt that she 
belonged to Alwyne, and looked upon herself as engaged to 
him. Her real husband she regarded as a disagreeable de- 
tail which she did her best to forget. 

Some considerable time Avas spent in expressions of de- 
light at meeting, and in Dulcie’ s description of the firm- 
ness by which she had baffied her mother and routed Noel; 
then suddenly she stopped, and, looking eagerly in Al- 
wyne’ s face, cried: 

“ What does your lawyer say?” 

This was the moment that Alwyne had dreaded. Evad- 
ing a direct answer, he reneAved his impassioned protesta- 
tions Avith increased fervor; but Dulcie, bent on hearing 
the answer for Avhich she hoped, put them aside, and re- 
peated her question earnestly. 

Alwyne hesitated. He could not tell her a lie on the 
subject, and yet, with any shadow of truth, he could not 
bid her hope. 

Dulcie trembled. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


159 


Do you mean to say,’’ she whispered, with white lips 
and a terrified look, “ that nothing can be done?” 

“Nothing, I am afraid,” replied Alwyne, gloomily, 

‘ ‘ short of his knocking you down and running away with 
another woman.” Then seating himself beside her and 
taking her hand, he began again hotly to protest his love. 
He urged all those arguments common to young men when 
passion gets the better of honor; he talked the precious 
nonsense about marriages unblessed by the Church but sa- 
cred in the sight of God, which has befooled silly women 
to their undoing; he vowed eternal fidelity; he pictured a 
paradise in foreign lands of which they were to be the 
Adam and Eve— he did and said everything, in fact, that 
he could think of to persuade Dulcie to run away with him. 
But Dulcie’ s heart had turned to stone within her. She 
was not of those who think the world well lost for love’s 
sake— $he understood quite enough of such matters to real- 
ize the fate of a woman who commits the error that Al- 
wyne would have had her commit, and she was the last girl 
in the world to sacrifice herself in such a manner. She loved 
Alwyne to the best of her poor ability, but the man did not 
exist for whom she could bear scorn and contumely. All 
the imprudences she had been guilty of had been committed 
in the belief that she was to be Alwyne’ s wife— never for 
one instant had the thought of being his mistress crossed 
her brain. Now despair overcame her — she sat and wept 
helplessly ; whilst he was at his wits’ end to console her. 
She scarcely heard his impassioned words — a dull, grievous 
sense that all was at an end between them overwhelmed 
her. From henceforth she was widowed and hopeless — she 
would not be Noel’s wife, she could not be Alwyne’ s. 

Alwyne had not said to himself in so many words that 
he intended to play the villain ; he only declared that he 
could not live without her ; and now he was trying to gloss 
over the wrong and to persuade her that their manifest 
duty was to live for each other. He did not really antici 
pate a very hard task in persuading Dulcie, and he quite 
meant to consider her his wife to the end of their natural 
lives. But he painted his charming pictures to dull ears. 
Dulcie kept on thinking and realizing, as he talked, of the 
agonizing loss she had sustained, but was not moved for 
one instant to any thought of consenting. 

And, just when Alwyne felt that his passionate pleading 
must conquer, she looked up at him, her eyes dim from 
much weeping, and said : 

“ You must go now, and T shall never see you again.” 

He sat staring as one stupefied ; he did not believe for a 
moment that she seriously meant what she said. 

“ You are not in earnest !” he cried. - ' 


760 


ONCE AGAIN 


“I am,” she answered, between her sobs. ‘ I would 
have done anything, sacrificed anything, to be your wife, 
but you say it is impossible. If you really loved me, you 
—you would never think of anything else. ’ ’ 

Alwyne protested that he did love her; that it was be- 
cause he loved her he could not give her up ; that if she 
loved him she would feel, as he did, that life apart was not 
to be borne. 

But here the obstinacy which had baffled Mr&. Vernon 
and Noel came in, to the confusion of Alwyne, and, though 
she wept piteously, she was not to be brought to make any 
concession. She could never love any one else ; if ever the 
time came when she was free, she would be his, but only 
his lawfully and honorably. 

Then Alwyne lost his temper, and reproached her vio- 
lently, and cried too with rage and disappointment, and 
swore that she was sending him to the devil, and that he 
would go there with all possible expedition, and then per 
haps she would be sorry. 

As she remained unmoved by all this, excepting that she 
continued to weep copiously, he at last rushed from the 
room and house, violently banging the door behind him, 
and frightening the servants, who up to this time had been 
unconscious of his presence in the house. 

By the time her cousin returned from the garden-party, 
Dulcie was really ill in bed from the effects of her excite- 
ment. In the course of the cwening Mrs. Leslie was in- 
formed that a gentleman had been to see Miss Vernon, and 
had left the house with a bang that nearly brought the 
house down. She was seriously alarmed ; she had not be- 
lieved that Dulcie would deceive her ; but now she realized 
that her staying at home was merely a ruse, and trembled 
lest Mrs. Vernon should discover how she had been out- 
witted. Well, it should not happen again ; she only trusted 
that nothing serious would come of this. 

She went at once to Dulcie, who lay pale and inert, 
with closed eyes. 

“ Dulcie,” she said in a low voice, “ you have done very 
wrong to deceive me in this way. What am I to say to 
your mother if she finds it out?” 

The girl’s tears fell afresh. 

“ You need not be afraid,” she answered, dolorously, “ I 
shall never see him again. It is all over ; and, oh ! I am 
the most miserable girl alive !’ ’ 

Then Mrs. Leslie felt sorry for her, and pressed her hand 
kindly and besought her to relate what had happened. 
And Dulcie replied that there was no longer any hope of a 
divorce ; but she was too proud and too cunning to reveal 
what more had passed between them on the subject. 


ONCE AGAIN, 


161 


Next day she received an impassioned letter from A1 
wyne, begging her forgiveness, yet declaring that he could 
not live without her. 

She put his letter in the grate, burned up every morsel 
with wax matches, and made no reply of any kind to it. 
After three days came his parting shaft. “You never 
loved me. You will see to what you have driven me!” 

“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Leslie, a few mornings 
later, at breakfast, as she was looking over the Morning 
Post. 

“ What?” asked Dulcie, listlessly. 

Her cousin handed her the paper with a shocked look, 
and she read : 

“We are authorized to announce that a marriage has 
been arranged, and will shortly take place, between Mr. 
Alwyne Temple, of Blank Court, Blankshire, and Lady 
Lucy Quickset, second daughter of the Earl and Countess 
of Hedgerow.” 

Dulcie’ s hand trembled; her face was very white as she 
returned the paper to Mrs. Leslie. 

“I suppose it is the best thing he could do,” she said, 
trying to command her voice. 

Then she rose, left her unfinished breakfast, and went to 
her room. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Here I must exert the author’s privilege of putting back 
the clock and return for the moment to some of the other 
characters who have figured in these pages. 

We left Mrs. Chandos with a headache; Sir John Ches- 
ter with a heartache, partially relieved for the moment by 
the unexpected kindness of his lady-love; Mrs. Herbert in 
the role of benevolent godmother, and Mrs. Pierpoint at 
her wits’ end to know what to do with her willful and tur- 
bulent-spirited brother; Mrs. Chester in sore distress of 
mind and full of fear of the wiles of the wicked siren ; and 
Lilah irritable and peevish to the last degree at what she 
considered every one’s neglect of her. 

When Mrs. Vernon and Dulcie left, and Jack took up 
his quarters at Cannes, her temper became unbearable, 
and at the end of a week she worried her mother until the 
poor lady was obliged to consent to taking her back to 
England. Lilah hated being abroad, she declared; she 
hated foreigners ; she hated the hotel ; she even hated the 
roses and the sunshine, and insisted that, instead of feel- 
ing better, she was . much, mitch worse, and would very 
likely die if she were not restored at once tp her dear 
home. 


162 


ONCE AGAIN 


Perhaps, in her secret heart, Mrs. Chester was not sorry 
for a pretext to get her son away from the dangers and 
temptations which beset him, and when Lilan passionately 
and persistently demanded to be taken back to England 
she wrote to Sir John to acquaint him with his sister’s de- 
sire. 

The letter was a severe blow to Jack, who was basking 
in sunshine, both actual and metaphorical, at Cannes, and 
his first impulse was to feel angry with Lilah and even to 
rebel against having his pleasure curtailed by what he 
knew to be simply her caprice. Indeed he had to fight a 
pretty stern battle with himself before his kind heart and 
the recollection of his dead father’s injunction triumphed 
over the inclination to refuse submission to her selfish and 
arbitrary will. 

But he did triumph, and, with a very sore heart, bade 
adieu to the two dear ladies at the Villa Blank. In one 
way he was almost as much attached to Mrs. Herbert as to 
Reine. She had a wonderful art of making him appear to 
the best advantage; in her presence he was never tongue- 
tied nor awkward, and Reine admitted that there was a 
great deal more in him than she had suspected. She ral- 
lied Mrs. Herbert on his devotion to her, and declared that 
they were so much in love with each other that it was 
positively embarrassing to be the third person ; and Mrs. 
Herbert did not attempt to deny the impeachment, but 
merely declared that she would give anything to adopt 
him as her son, upon which Reine gibingly replied that 
Mia was making use of a very common subterfuge, only 
that, unfortunately, it was such an old and hackneyed one 
that it deceived no one. Mrs. Herbert smiled, and protested 
no more. 

When Jack took a sorrowful farewell of her, she prom- 
ised to write to him, and bade him be sure to come to Lon- 
don and see her as soon as she returned there. And when, 
in the following April, she wrote to him announcing her 
arrival, he put himself in the train the very next day with 
a joyful heart, and was whirled away to the big city. 

Mrs. Herbert received him with open arms; he had a 
delightful tete-a-tete dinner with her that very evening, 
and, during the three days of his sojourn, spent the, 
greater part of the time in her company. 

Reine was in Paris, and likely to remain there for at 
least another month. Captain Bernard, she informed him 
with unfeigned pleasure, had at last succeeded in drinking 
himself to death, and, though she would not buoy Jack up 
with false hopes, she still encouraged him not to despair, 
and promised to help him if he would yield implicitly to 
her guidance. 


ONCE AGAIN. 


103 

Mrs. Herbert, who felt unequal to and disliked the 
trouble of having a large acquaintance, was an extremely 
stanch and loyal friend to those she liked and took an in- 
terest in. ‘ ‘ Friendship, ’ ’ she was wont to say, ‘ ‘ is the 
great resource and pleasure of middle age : its ties, unlike 
those of love, are welcome and pleasant; they are elastic, 
and will stretch to any extent ; it is impossible for them 
to gall. Friendship is not like love, a sudden instinct that 
draws together two people who have nothing in common 
but passion ; it must be founded on a similarity of tastes 
and ideas, on mutual affection and esteem. If my lover 
does an unworthy or a cruel action, I may hate the act, 
but be unable to refrain from loving him; if my friend 
committed it, he would no longer be my friend, for my 
affection could not bind me to his unworthiness, and, 
although I might still keep him as an acquaintance, his 
hold on my heart would be gone. But, unless my judg- 
ment had wandered very far astray, I should never have 
chosen for a friend one who was capable of wounding and 
outraging my susceptibilities. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Herbert, then, having admitted Jack to her friend- 
ship, was ready to do everything in her power to help 
him. She was convinced of the excellence o^ his heart 
and temper ; his behavior to his mother and sister assured 
her of that, and his extreme fondness for and goodness to 
animals was a very strong link between him and his new 
friend. All the ideas which he expressed when they con- 
versed intimately together were pleasing to her; he was 
open, straightforward, honest, abhorred everything mean, 
cruel, or cowardly, was absolutely devoid of the cheap 
cynicism which many young men of the day think it 
smart to affect, either on the subject of women’s virtue or 
the general untrustworthiness of the whole human race. 
He could believe, admire, and love with a fresh and honest 
heart ; and nothing would have induced Mrs. Herbert to 
air in his presence any of the advanced views which she 
sometimes advocated in the presence of a sympathetic 
listener. 

‘ ‘ People who believe everything are happy and enviable, ” 
she said. “ I think it a positive crime to attempt to take 
from any one a particle of faith, although in my own eyes 
it may seem to be only .obsolete superstition. I would far 
rather see a slight lack of intelligence or disinclination to 
intellectual research in a young man than the brilliant 
talents which so often go to make an iconoclast of him. ’ ’ 

And Jack never doubted for one instant that Mrs. Her- 
bert believed every word of the Bible from beginning to 
end, but imagined that she deplored as deeply as he did 
the malign influence of Henry Bertram, which had per- 


ONCE again 


m 

verted the ideas of the purest and most innocent woman irt 
the world. He was exceedingly discomposed one day, when 
seated in Mrs. Herbert’s drawing-room, by the butler 
throwing open the door and announcing, “Mr. Bertram.’’ 
Jack had not been five minutes in the room; he could not, 
therefore, take his hat and go, but had to remain, and join 
in conversation with the dangerous atheist. Never had he 
received a greater shock of surprise than as he sat and list- 
ened to Mr. Bertram’s conversation, it was so polished, so 
amusing, so thoroughly good-natured and tolerant on every 
subject that was mooted, so full of indulgence for the short- 
comings of others. It happened that Mrs. Herbert brought 
up two topics of considerable interest which were then oc- 
cupying the public mind, and she spoke with a great deal 
of energy and some fire in denouncing the wrong doers; 
but Henry Bertram, whilst not palliating the crimes them- 
selves, made such generous and intelligent allowance for 
possible circumstances and motives not apparent to those 
who only saw results, that he ended by persuading Mrs. 
Herbert and Jack, who had warmly supported her, to take 
a more lenient view, of the case. 

Little by little Jack felt his prejudice melting away, and 
when Bertram rose to take leave he found himself giving 
a hearty and cordial hand-shake to the man vrhom he had 
looked upon as the arch-enemy of every good and noble 
sentiment. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Herbert, smiling, as the door closed 
upon him, looking up at Jack with a perfect comprehen- 
sion of his change of feeling, “and what do you think of 
the monster?” 

Jack looked, as he felt, puzzled. 

“ I never was so surprised in any one,” he said, honestly, 
after a moment’s pause. “To hear him talk, he seems 
such a good chap. If one did not know ” 

“ You have seen him to-day as he is always,” said Mrs. 
Herbert. ‘ ‘ He is the kindest-hearted, most charitable 
creature living. If he believed every syllable that is writ- 
ten in the Scriptures, he could not more thoroughly act up 
to the principles they inculcate.” 

“I can’t understand it,” remarked Jack, perplexed, and 
scarcely liking to confess that he had almost imagined un- 
believers to be wicked, immoral wretches, capable of com- 
mitting the blackest and most dastardly crimes, and to 
whom charity and generous impulses were unknown. 
“ Was he always an — atheist?” 

“ On the contrary. His father was a bishop, and he was 
brought up most strictly. He declares that the intolerance 
and narrow-mindedness which he saw in his youth so re- 
volted all the generous instincts of his nature that the mo- 


ONCE AGAIN. 


165 


merit he was able to emancipate himself he flung off the 
cloak of religion, and has, according to his own account, 
been happy ever since.” 

“I don’t understand it,” repeated Jack, still puzzled. 
” I don’t see how people can do right if they don’t believe 
in God.” 

“Henry Bertram says,” returned Mrs. Herbert, “that 
he cannot see why you want a God to teach you that it is 
wrong to lie and steal and oppress the helpless, when your 
own natural instincts tell it you so plainly. ‘ Do you 
think, ’ he says, ‘ I would say to my boy, if I had one : 
“Do not lie and steal and be c::uel and injure others, be- 
cause God will damn you and send you to hell if you do ” ? 
No! I should say: “Be honest, kind, truthful, just, that 
you may respect yourself and help your fellow-creatures 
and make them happier ; that when you die you may have 
been of use in your generation, and have helped the world 
to progress toward a happier and more enlightened state ; 
that whilst you live you may be able to hold up your head 
among your fellow-men; that you may keep your heart 
soft, and not be arrogant and bitter and hard to those who 
don’t think as you do.” ’ ” 

“Well,” said Jack, “but is not that' very much what 
Christianity teaches ?’ ’ 

“ Yes,” answered Mrs. Herbert, “ what it ought to teach, 
and what it is supposed to teach ; only with the love of God 
for its motive. But just look at all the different sects and 
parties ! ‘ See how these Christians love each other !’ Still, 

for my own part, I can make allowance for a certain 
amount of bigotry and narrow-mindedness. If you are 
very much in earnest and believe honestly that there is 
only one way of being saved, you must nail your colors to 
the mast and stick to fixed principles. For the most part, 
tolerance means indifference. If you with all the energy 
of your heart and soul believe in a certain thing, you can- 
not say, ‘ Perhaps it’s true, and perhaps it isn’t; after all, 
it does not much matter.’ ” 

Here another visitor was announced, and Jack took his 
leave without having had an opportunity of saying a word 
about Eeine. 

In the interests of her favorite, Mrs. Herbert thought it 
desirable to make the acquaintance of Jack’s mother and 
sister, and Fortune was not long in favoring her with an 
opportunity. Lilah was more delicate than ever, and 
Mrs. Chester brought her to London to consult an emi- 
nent physician. When they had been three or four days 
in town, Mrs. Herbert, after ascertaining that a call from 
her would be acceptable, paid her visit late in the after- 
noon. 


166 


ONCE AGAIN. 


The Chesters were staying in apartments, as Lilah dis- 
liked the noise of a hotel. Mrs. Herbert found them in 
tribulation: the chimney smoked; the landlady was dis- 
obliging; Lilah was in a state of extreme nervous irritabil- 
ity. Mrs. Herbert, who was not, as a rule, fond of 
strangers or of being put out of her way, took pity on the 
two helpless ladies, and, having also an eye to Jack’s in- 
terest, insisted positively that they should give up their 
rooms and come to her comfortable house next day, and, 
in spite of Mrs. Chester’s protestations, would take no de- 
nial. The result was admirable. Lilah had never been so 
happy and comfortable before. Mrs. Ch(^.ster was weighed 
down by gratitude, and Mrs. Herbert won in the mother 
and daughter two admiring and devoted friends. She was 
obliged to promise a return visit to them at their country 
home, and this led to an arrangement which gave pleasure 
to all parties. 

The dower-house on the estate was let, but the tenant 
was in the habit of traveling during July, August, and 
September, and subletting the house for these three months 
if a desirable occupant could be found. The house was 
charmingly furnished, and had a lovely garden. Mrs. 
Herbert’s custom^was to rent a place in the country during 
the summer and autumn, and the Chester family implored 
her to come and take up her abode at the dower-house. 

Mrs. Chester was aware that Mrs. Herbert was the friend 
of Mrs. Chandos, but, having heard no mention of that 
lady for several months, had ceased to feel any anxiety or 
misgivings about her. Mrs. Herbert had not once men- 
tioned Heine’s name in the presence of either Mrs. Chester 
or Lilah, and, before they came to see her, had, with a 
slight qualm as though she were guilty of some treachery, 
locked away the beautiful miniature of Heine which al- 
ways stood on her writing-table along with the handsomely- 
bound volumes of poems which were also wont to occupy 
a prominent place in her boudoir. Truth to tell, she and 
Jack entered into a little conspiracy which would have 
made Heine furious had she known it, to avoid all mention 
of her, and of her sayings and doings, before his relatives. 

Heine always spent at least a month with Mrs. Herbert 
at her summer resort, and Jack, with a beating heart, 
looked forward to the time when his idol would be even at 
his very gates. 

It was June before Mrs. Chandos came to London and 
took up her residence in her own pretty little house. She 
had almost forgotten Jack’s existence, but when she met 
him at Mrs. Herbert’s she behaved very kindly and cor- 
dially to him, and rallied her Mend more than ever about 
her latest infatuation, Mrs. Herbert laid down the strictest 


ONCE AGAIN 


167 


rules for Jack’s guidance, and, by repeating them over and 
over again, succeeded in impressing upon him the absolute 
necessity of following them if he ever hoped for success. 
True, she could not exercise the control over his eyes that 
she did over his tongue, but Eeine did not appear to remark 
his occasional glances of devotion, and, as long as he re- 
frained from putting his feelings into words, was quite will- 
ing to be friendly with him. Indeed, she took a consider- 
able liking to him, and he was often allowed to be in her 
company when she and Mrs. Herbert were together. 

Henry Bertram not unfrequently made a fourth at dinner 
or for a party to the play, and when Jack had fully con- 
vinced himself that this pleasant infidel had no designs on 
Efeine’s heart he became immensely attached to him, and 
Mr. Bertram heartily reciprocated the young fellow’s good 
feeling, being thoroughly pleased with his honest, open, and 
guileless nature. Mrs. Herbert had even confided her plot 
to him for the bringing together of this pair, and he, when 
he had seen and narrowly observed Jack, was by no means 
inclined to oppose or throw cold water upon it. 

He was sincerely attached to Eeine'; he knew that she 
was an unhappy woman, and he was ready to welcome any 
scheme that might make her life healthier and happier. 
He was always trying to combat that tendency to morbid 
feeling which was the chief cause of her discontent and 
despondency, and he agreed with Mrs. Herbert that a lively 
and adoring young husband would be an excellent antidote 
to gloomy and pessimistic thoughts. 

Eeine, acute though her instincts usually were, did not 
suspect the trap that was being laid for her by her devoted 
friends ; the idea would have seemed to her so preposterous 
and absurd that it did not occur to her to entertain it. 
She was in a happier mood than she had been for a long 
time: the death of Captain Bernard was an unspeakable 
relief to her; she was no longer haunted by the fear of 
meeting him, or of hearing some disgraceful story about 
him. She now realized that she was absolutely free — the 
mistress of her own fate and life as far as any mortal can 
be. She consented willingly to spend some time with Mrs. 
Herbert at the dower-house, being in blissful ignorance of 
the fear and horror which she inspired in the maternal 
breast of Mrs. Chester. 

During lun* stay in town she saw a good deal of Mrs. Ver- 
non, who was in a really pitiable state of wretchedness and 
embarrassment. She had conceived a positive dislike to her 
dang] iter, and declared it to be impossible that they should 
live any longer under the same roof. Knowing Eeine ’s dis- 
cretion, it was an immense relief to her to discuss the mis- 
erable affair, and Eeine sympathized very sincerely with 


168 


ONCE AGAIN 


her aunt. It was out of the question, Mrs. Vernon de- 
clared, that she should continue to go about with Dulcie as 
though she were a marriageable girl ; and to live in a state 
of constant suspicion of some new treachery and duplicity 
would be intolerable. 

Mrs. Vernon was beyond measure indignant with Noel 
for his cowardice ; but he had sailed for India, and was out 
of reach of her remonstrances or anger. She lived in daily 
fear, she declared, of Dulcie’ s folly bringing her into irre- 
trievable disgrace, and it was with heartfelt thankfulness 
that she read the announcement in the Post of Alwyne’s 
intended marriage. But until it was an accomplished fact 
she averred that she should not know a moment’s peace, 
since it might only be a fresh ruse of the pair, wlio seemed 
equally devoid of honorable instincts, to throw dust in her 
eyes and the eyes of the world at large in order that they 
might carry out their own abominable designs. 

Mrs. Herbert was acquainted with the Hedgerows, and 
Heine elicited from her, without any breach of her aunt’s 
confidence, that the engagement was a hona fide one, that 
the family were pleased with it, and that Alwyne appeared 
to be a very devoted and attentive lover. 

Dulcie remained for the present with Mrs. Leslie, as her 
mother had no desire to see her, and Mrs. Vernon employed 
all the tact she possessed to account to her friends for her 
daughter’s absence from London in the very height of the 
season. 


CHAPTER XXIH. 

Mrs. Herbert took possession of the dower-house early 
in July. Reine was not to join her until a month later, 
having promised to spend some weeks with another inti- 
mate friend in Hampshire. 

Mrs. Herbert, who never liked to be quite alone, es- 
pecially in the country, took with her as companion pro 
tern, the daughter of an old friend whom stern vicissitude 
had compelled to earn the bitter bread of dependence. 
Her experiences had been peculiarly unfortunate, her lot 
having fallen among vulgar and tyrannical people, and she 
could, although she rarely did, relate stories of the treat- 
ment she had suffered which would hardly have seemed 
credible to ordinary people. There are hundreds — let us 
hope thousands — of houses where governesses and compan 
ions are treated with kindness and courtesy, but there are 
others where the behavior of the employers is such as they 
would not dare to show a servant, on pain of being left to 
wait upon themselves. In these days, when thousands of 
gently-nurtured girls have no alternative but to earn their 


ONCE AGAIN 


169 


Own bread, when the market is so terribly overstocked with 
the commodity of unemployed gentlewomen, it is a case 
either of starving or enduring ; and if ladies are cruel and 
overbearing the unhappy dependent must submit, or run 
the chance of being for months without a situation, per- 
haps suffering absolute want. 

Mrs. Herbert, who had been very kind to Grace’s fam- 
ily, invited her to spend a month at thq dower-house. . She 
was a tall, graceful girl, not exactly pretty, but exceed- 
ingly ladylike, with beautiful hands and feet and an un- 
mistakable air of breeding. She adored Mrs. Herbert, 
and would have done anything in the world for her. She 
used to say a dozen times in the day : 

“You must please not be so kind to me, or it will make 
the change so dreadful when I go away.” 

Mrs. Herbert was delighted with the dower-house. The 
present possessor, seeing what a desirable tenant he had 
secured in her, left out all his china, pictures, and pretty 
knick-knacks, and, as she said, it was quite like going to 
one’s own house. There was a wealth of flowers in the 
garden and conservatories, and Grace used to devote a 
great deal of her time to arranging them in the big china 
bowls ; for Mrs. Herbert loved to have flowers about her, 
and scouted the old-fashioned idea of their making a room 
unhealthy. 

Sir John came every day to the house, under the pre- 
tense of wanting to know if she was quite comfortable, 
and if there was nothing he could do for her, and seemed 
quite disappointed that his good will was not put to the 
proof. 

There was constant friendly intercourse between the hall 
and the dower-house. Lilah took a great fancy to Grace, 
who read, sang, and talked to her, and felt a genuine pleas- 
ure in lightening the burden of the poor little sufferer. 

After ten happy days Mrs. Herbert was sensible of the 
first crumpled rose-leaf. She saw that poor Grace was fast 
falling in love with Sir John, and it troubled her seriously. 

‘ ‘ How can one ever be sure, with the best intentions in the 
world,” she said to herself, “ that one is doing a kindness? 
I have brought Gracie here thinking to give her a month’s 
rest and happiness, and it is quite likely that I shall be the 
means of causing her the worst heartaches she has ever 
had in her life, poor child!” 

For Jack, with his natural kind and refined instincts, be- 
haved with much more attention to Grace than he would 
have done to most girls, on account of her dependent posi- 
tion, and it would have been quite pardonable on her part 
if she fancied he was attracted toward her. Truth to tell, 
Jhe young man was so anxious to be alone with Mrs. Her- 


itc 


ONCE AGAIE\ 


bert to talk about his beloved that he was mortally afraid 
of showing that the presence of a third person was irksome ; 
and so, whenever Grace appeared, he was at great pains to 
conceal his chagrin, and in the goodness of his heart a lit- 
tle overacted his part. 

Mrs. Herbert reflected seriously upon the situation, and 
after some heart-burning, came to a decision. Something 
must he done before it was too late, and she felt that the 
wisest course would be to confide the real facts to Grace. 
With her usual tact, she selected her opportunity when 
they were sitting together in the twilight after dinner, re 
fleeting that the dusk would conceal any emotion that her 
recital might bring to the girl’s cheeks and eyes. 

She began by praising Sir John, his thoughtful kindness, 
his manliness, his good -looks— for she thought him good- 
looking, although he had no very strict claim to being 
called handsome. By the vivacity and ardor with which 
Grace agreed to and echoed her encomiums, a not very sub- 
tle person would have got an inkling of the truth, and, for 
once, it was rather a source of pain to Mrs. Herbert to have 
her praises so eagerly assented to. 

“Who would think,” she went on, almost hating herself 
for the stab she was inflicting, “that Sir John was the 
victim of a hopeless love?” 

A moment’s silence followed, in which the last speaker 
acutely felt what her listener was suffering. 

“It is a strict secret,” Mrs. Herbert continued, with an 
effort, “ and if I confide it to you you must promise faith 
fully not to divulge it, nor to let him think you have any 
suspicion of it.” 

“Of course,” answered poor Grace, in a hard, strained 
voice that she had the utmost difficulty in controlling, and 
a pang went through her heart as though the consciousness 
of a dire misfortune had come to her. She had not thought, 
imagined, hoped anything, and yet this revelation came 
upon her like a thunderclap. 

Mrs. Herbert went on with her story in as natural a 
voice as she could command, and Grace listened whilst the 
light waned and her own heart grew dark and chill, too. 
She had once seen Heine and admired her immensely ; but 
now she felt dislike of her growing in her breast, and in lit- 
tle more than a fortnight she, the poor, despised governess 
and companion, would be ousted from all this happiness, 
and the beautiful, gifted, fortunate Mrs. Chandos, who al- 
ready (as Grace thought) had all this world’s good things, 
would be queening it in a Paradise, with the man who pos- 
sessed every manly grace and virtue for her slave. Oh, 
how cruel the world is ! how cruel life is for some people ! 
^nd how others are heaped with gifts and blessings, with 


ONCE AGAIN 


171 


love and happiness ! At this moment Grace would have 
scoffed had any one told her that Heine Chandos was a less 
happy woman than herself. 

Mrs. Herbert’s tale was told. The room had grown quite 
dark, and silence fell upon the pair. 

“ I think we will not have lights just yet,” said Mrs. 
Herbert, after a long pausef “I feel a little sleepy,” she 
added, settling herself back in her chair ; and Grace went 
away into the garden, and, sitting on a bench, looked at the 
vast heaven and the silver stars, and marveled at the cru 
elty of her lot, until her sight became dim and misty with 
tears. 

Neither that night nor at any future time was the sub- 
ject recurred to either by her or Mrs. Herbert. Poor Grace 
had an intuition why the story had been told her, and was 
careful to let her friend see that she perfectly understood 
and appreciated the motive of Sir John’s kindness to her 
and was in no way misled by it. 

As August drew near, and the time for Heine’s visit ap- 
proached, both Jack and Mrs. Herbert felt a little uneasy. 
Each knew full well what a shock the news would be to 
Mrs. Chester, and each had a sense of guilt at their conspir- 
acy and of fear lest it should be detected. Mrs. Herbert had 
promised to broach the news, and rarely had she felt more 
uncomfortable at a task. To her intense relief a circum- 
stance altogether unexpected came to her aid, and she was 
not slow to take advantage of it. 

Mrs. Chester had written two or three times to Mrs. 
Vernon during the last few months, pressing her to bring 
Dulcie and pay them the long- promised visit, and at last 
Mrs. Vernon had accepted. Alwyne Temple’s marriage 
had taken place, and there was no longer anything to be 
dreaded from the thought of meeting him. To be alone 
with her daughter was insupportable to Mrs. Vernon, an(^ 
she had, therefore, accepted several invitations to country- 
houses, and fixed the beginning of August for her visit to 
the Chesters. 

Mrs. Chester came down to the dower- house to announce 
the news to her friend, and Mrs. Herbert at once rejoined, 
with great aplomb : 

“ That will be charming. I have just written to Mrs. 
Vernon ^s niece, begging her to come to me. If she ac- 
cepts, we shall be quite a family party.” 

Mrs. Herbert spoke with so innocent an air that poor, 
guileless Mrs. Chester was completely taken in by it; but 
tlie news was a severe shock to her, altlmigh she did her 
best to conceal what she felt. The one woman on earth 
she feared, at her very gates! The poor lady went home, 
fell on her knees^ and prayed earnestly that her dear 


m 


ONCE AGAIN, 


son might be delivered from Eeine’s wiles and snares as 
though Mrs. Chandos had been the Scarlet hady m propria 
persona. 

Jack was at immense pains to hide his jubilance, but his 
heart was full of joy, and he seemed to tread on air. 

Mrs. Herbert was looking joyfully forward to Reine’s 
arrival, but a pang shot through her kind heart every 
time she thought of Gracie’s dej)arture and the sad change 
her life would undergo when she left the dower-house. It 
was an immense relief to her when, one morning, Mrs. 
Chester came to make the proposition that Miss Waltham 
should be offered the post of companion to Lilah for three 
months. The idea was Lilah’ s own: she had been seri- 
ously concerned at the thought of losing her new friend, 
and it had occurred to her that it would be delightful to 
have Grace all to herself, not as a visitor, but as her own 
chattel and apanage. Mrs. Chester had demurred a little 
at first to the idea of taking a new inmate into the family; 
but Lilah had appealed to Jack, and he had heartily ap- 
proved of and concurred in it. At all events, there could 
be no harm in trying it. 

Grace caught eagerly at the proposal. Like her sex, she 
clung to the presence of the beloved, even though she 
knew that it would cause her infinite suffering. 

Mrs. Vernon and Dulcie arrived two or three days before 
Reine. It was impossible for the Chesters not to remark 
how much changed Dulcie was since the winter. She 
looked sad; she made little effort to talk; and though she 
forced a stereotyped smile when spoken to, it was so mani- 
festly artificial as to inspire no idea of pleasure or mirth 
in the beholder. Dulcie was, indeed, utterly miserable. 
What affection she had she had given to Alwyne: his 
very masterfulness had exercised a potent charm over her 
weak nature ; it had been happiness to submit to him and 
to his influence. The memory of Noel filled her with fear 
and repugnance. A sense of dislike to her mother over- 
spread her heart. She felt with indignant revolt that the 
latter had no pity for her, no sympathy with her grief; 
that, if she could, she would at any moment force her into 
the arms of Noel; that she would gladly welcome any- 
thing that would relieve her of her, Dulcie’ s, presence. 
This was quite true Mrs. Vernon felt nothing but impa- 
tient scorn of her daught-er. Dulcie’ s presence had become 
well nigh intolerable tc her : the fact of having to take 
" about a seemingly marriageable daughter under false pre- 
tences was an odious fraud v^hich she beyond expression 
hated being compelled to connive at. 

Until Alwyne’s marriage had become an accomplished 
fa^t, Dulcie had not seriously believed that it would take 


ONCE AGAIN 


173 


place. She thought he meant to frighten and to punish 
her ; she was so certain that he loved her, she could not 
believe he would willingly place an insuperable barrier 
between them. When she read the announcement of his 
marriage in the paper, it had broken whatever of heart 
and spirit she possessed. 

Although all the members of the Chester family re- 
marked the change in Dulcie, it was only sharp little 
Lilah who connected it with Alwyne’s marriage. She had 
seen at Nice that Dulcie was in love with her cousin, and 
had declared that Mrs. Vernon only left them and returned 
to England in order to get rid of Alwyne ; and, although 
she was extremely puzzled to know why so eligible a 
young man had been rejected by Dulcie’s mother, she felt 
certain in her own mind that the change in Dulcie was to 
be attributed to Alwyne’s marriage. She spoke purposely 
of Alwyne and his bride in Dulcie’s presence, watching 
her the while with lynx eyes, and she noted, with a cer- 
tain pride in her own discrimination, that a faint color 
came to the girl’s cheeks and that she showed some slight 
embarrassment. 

Lilah, with a desire of oifering consolation to the victim 
of her scalpel, spoke in a disparaging way of Lady Lucy, 
declared that she was fast and horsey and that there was 
no doubt she had a temper, in which case she and Alwyne 
would soon come to blows, as he had the very worst tem- 
per in the world, and was so spoiled and selfish that he 
could not bear the least contradiction. Indeed, she, Lilah, 
pitied any poor wretch who had the misfortune to be his 
wife. 

Dulcie made no remark in answer, although she bitterly 
resented Lilah’ s words in her heart; but she had always 
looked upon her as a peevish, sharp-tongued, disagreeable 
little creature. 

Sir John did his utmost to amuse and cheer Dulcie. 
Always kindly and benevolently disposed, he was now so 
brimful of happiness that he burned to make every one 
about him happy too, and could not tolerate the idea of her 
being miserable. So much attention, indeed, did he show 
her that Mrs. Chester’s hopes began to revive and poor 
Grace suffered keen pangs of jealousy, thinking that per- 
haps after all Mrs. Herbert had been mistaken in supposing 
his heart to be given to Mrs. Chandos. 

But this impression did not last a moment after she had 
seen him in Reine’s presence. Then she knew beyond a 
doubt that Mrs. Herbert had told her the simple truth. 
There was an expression in his eyes, a ring in his voice, 
when he spoke to Mrs. Chandos, that would nave betrayed 
him to the mej'est tyro in love's ways. In spite of Mrs. 


174 


ONCE AGAIN. 


Herbert’s warnings, he could not conceal the delight he 
felt in Heine’s presence. In London it had been different; 
but now that she was here, here in his own house, he felt 
as though he had a new prerogative to love her and to be 
happy. Whether Heine read what was written so legibly 
in his face or no, she made no sign, but treated him with 
frank kindness and without a shade oi embarrassment. 
She was in excellent spirits, delighted to be once more 
with Mrs. Herbert, of whom she was exceedingly fond, 
charmed with the dower-house, in unusually good health 
and spirits, and quite in tune to enjoy the simple pleasures 
of the country. Both she and Mrs. Herbert loved to be in 
the air and were fond of driving, and there were plenty of 
pretty drives in the neighborhood. 

Jack was constantly at the house, and Heine still affected 
to laugh at her friend and to rally her upon his attention ; 
and, as Mrs. Herbert wished to give him every opportunity 
of being in Heine’s presence, she smilingly accepted the 
impeachment. 

“ There is one thing, my dear boy,” she said confidently 
to Jack, for by this time they were on the most familiar 
and friendly terms — ” there is one thing that I positively 
dare not do for you, and that is to leave you alone with 
Heine. If I did, her suspicions would be aroused at once ; 
so, much as I hate being third, I must for the present con- 
tinue to play that obnoxious part.” 

Of course Jack had the good manners to assure her that 
never, under any circumstances, could her society be 
aught but delightful; and she smiled, and said that per- 
haps some day she might be able to convince him to the 
contrary, and that she ardently desired the advent of that 
time. 

He was compelled to make constant pretexts for being 
in the company of his two dear ladies, and, to that end, 
suggested frequent picnics and excursions, and, though 
this form of entertainment was not especially grateful to 
either Mrs. Herbert or Heine, they were amiable enough 
to sacrifice themselves with a good grace to the general 
weal. 

So two or three young men and maidens from the neigh- 
borhood were bidden to swell the party, and one of the 
former, an extremely eligible youth, fell forthwith des- 
perately in love with Dulcie, to her extreme disconcertment 
as well as to the annoyance of her mother. To be ambitious 
and to have a pretty daughter whom various men of posi- 
tion and fortune were burning to make their own, and to 
have her secretly married to an obscure young soldier with 
whose lot she declined to cast in their own, was a dispensa- 


ONCE AGAIN 


175 


tion so unbearable that one can scarcely wonder if it drove 
poor Mrs. Vernon to the verge of madness. 

And presently a new complication ensued. Alwyne, 
whose place was some thirty miles distant from his cousin’s, 
wrote to say that he and his wife had arrived there, and 
would drive over in his phaeton, sending on horses half 
way, and spend a couple of nights at the hall. 

Mrs. Chester, on receipt of this communication, felt 
slightly embarrassed. Eemembering what had happened 
in the winter, she thought it probable that a meeting might 
neither be agreeable to the Vernons nor to Alwyne. She 
called her son into council. 

“Alwyne knows that the Vernons are here,” answered 
Jack. ‘ ‘ I was writing to him the other day, and mentioned 
it. I dare say it is just a little bit of bravado on his part, 
to show them that he did not take his rejection at all to 
heart; but, of course, before we invite him and his wife 
here we must find out whether Mrs. Vernon and her daugh- 
ter object to meeting him. ’ ’ 

So Mrs. Chester put the matter as delicately as possible 
to Mrs. Vernon, and that lady, with a bland and serene 
face, declared that it would give them great pleasure to 
meet Mr. Temple and to make Lady Lucy’s acquaintance. 

In her secret heart she did not like the idea at all. Be- 
lieving Alwyne to be absolutely unprincipled and her 
daughter idiotically weak, she felt no certainty whatever 
as to the result of a meeting between them. She determined, 
however, to keep Argus-eyes upon both of them, and, as 
the visit was to be so short, she hardly thought much 
danger could accrue from it. In the role of bridegroom, 
too, Alwyne would be compelled, for decency’s sake, to 
show a great deal of attention to his bride. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Dulcie did not hear of the approaching visit until that 
evening at dinner, when Lilah made allusion to it. 

Her heart fainted within her ; she turned waxen white, 
and could not eat another morsel. No one looked at her or 
seemed to remark her discomposure, and as soon as dinner 
was over she went to her room. She felt as though she 
would rather do anything in the world than meet Alwyne 
under these new circnimstances, now that it was assured 
beyond all assurance that henceforth ho could be nothing 
to her or she to him. 

Her marriage in the I'egistry-ofiice had seemed an un- 
real kind of thing which might by some means or other be 
got over; but he had been married in church before the 
eyes of the world, and his ties were irrevocable, knitted by 


176 


ONCE AGAIN. 


the Church, by law, by society. How would he meet her? 
Did he know she was here? Surely not, or he would 
hardly have been so cruel as to put her to the pain of see- 
ing him under these changed and hopeless circumstances. 
Even now she clung to the belief that he must still love 
her, and had only married from pique or despair. She sat 
a long time at her open window, looking out at the moonlit 
garden, but seeing nothing, thinking only her miserable 
thoughts, until a tap came at the door, and Grace asked 
softly whether she would not come down and join in a 
round game. 

She did not dare refuse the summons, but accompanied 
Grace to the drawing-room and took the chair that had 
been placed for her next Sir John. She played mechanic- 
ally, like one in a dream ; but Jack insisted on her bank- 
ing with him, directed her play, and did his best to avert 
attention from her obviously distraite manner. Her 
mother glanced at her with covert scorn and resentment, 
incensed at her folly in wearing her heart so plainly on 
her sleeve. 

Mrs. Vernon rarely now saw or spoke to Dulcie in 
private, but she took occasion that evening to follow her 
to her room. 

“I suppose,” she said, in a hard voice, “that you are 
not particularly anxious to give people the impression that 
you are pining for Mr. Temple; therefore it would be as 
well in future to exercise a little more control over your 
self, and not to wear the willow quite so plainly as you did 
to-night. If you have any self-respect, you will not, when 
he arrives, give him the gratification of seeing how morti- 
fied you are by his marriage. ’ ’ 

Dulcie neither looked at nor replied to her mother ; a 
sullen resentment overspread her heart ; and, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, Mrs. Vernon turned and left the room. 

Alwyne had informed his aunt by letter that he and 
Lady Lucy would arrive in time for dinner. They were a 
little late, and every one went to dress except Mrs. Chester 
and Sir John, who waited to receive them. Dulcie thus 
escaped meeting Alwyne until the party assembled for 
dinner. Mrs. Herbert and Mrs. Chandos came from the 
dower-house, and two men from the neighborhood had 
been asked, to lessen the great preponderance of the fair 
sex. 

The line which Alwyne had selected was very soon mani- 
fest. He greeted Dulcie as though she were the merest ac- 
quaintance, Mrs. Vernon with distant and, having 
once exchanged with her the necessary greeting, never 
looked at nor spoke to her again during the evening. 

He was delightful to the ladies from the dower- house, 


ONCE AGAIN, 


m 


pleasantly patronizing to his aunt and Lilah, but his par- 
ticular attentions were reserved for his bride, of whom it 
seemed as though he could not make enough. He scarcely 
took his eyes off her ; if he was not speaking to her, he 
brought her name unceasingly into the conversation; his 
directions to the servants about “her ladyship’s” wants 
and comforts were a little more ostentatious than was com- 
patible with good taste. 

As for Lady Lucy, she accepted his attentions with per- 
fect good humor, if a little cavalierly, and chatted away 
after her own somewhat slangy fashion with great fluency 
and amiability. She was rather pretty, and perfectly un- 
affected ; had her hair cut short like a boy, laughed rather 
loudly, and talked a great deal to Sir John about horses, 
racing, and equine matters generally. 

After dinner, Alwyne hovered about her, insisted on her 
singing, stood by the piano in rapt attention during the 
somewhat mediocre performance, frowning if he heard the 
smallest whisper among the company. He was looking 
very handsome and distinguished, and his manner, a trifle 
dictatorial and self -important to every one else, was charm- 
ing to his wife. 

Sharp-eyed Lilah was perhaps the only one who quite saw 
through him. 

“I think,” she confided afterward to Grace, “that Al- 
wyne is more detestable than ever. That was his put-on 
manner to-night, and was only done to aggravate Dulcie 
Vernon and to make out that he did not care two straws 
about her having refused him. So snobbish of him, too, to 
keep on about ‘ her ladyship, ’ letting every one see how 
proud he is of having married an earl’s daughter.” 

Grace, who only saw in Alwyne a very handsome young 
man, devoted to his wife, thought Lilah very unjust; but 
she did not say so, having already discovered that it was 
unproductive of comfort or harmony to contradict the little 
tyrant. 

Poor Dulcie was cut to the heart. She suffered all that 
Alwyne’ s revengeful spirit desired that she should suffer ; 
his manner convinced her tliat she was ousted from his 
heart, and that the devotion she had once inspired was 
transferred to his wife. Yet, she thought bitterly, since he 
was so happy and triumphant, he might have had a kind 
word for her; he need not have treated her with such 
marked and cruel indifference. She wept bitterly far into 
the night ; she was suffering the most poignant anguish she 
had ever felt ; and, for the first time, the thought dawned 
across her that she too had been cruel, and had caused bit- 
ter and unnecessary pain to Noel by her heartless treat- 
jnent of him. 


ONCE AGAIN 


.78 

The nexi} day thei*e v/as a picnic, and r. tolerably large 
party assembled at the hall about midday. Dulcie’s latest 
admirer was of the party, and testified his love-lorn con- 
dition in the most ingenuous manner. 

Now, strange as it may seem, Alwyne, whose one object 
had hitherto been to evince in the most marked manner his 
absolute indifference to Miss Vernon, was vastly displeased 
to see the post which he had so contemptuously disclaimed 
any wish for occupied by some one else. It quite distracted 
him from his attention to his wife, and produced a dis- 
agreeable effect on his temper, making him perverse and 
contradictory and disposed to quarrel with every sugges- 
tion made for the general welfare and pleasure. 

Sir John drove Dulcie, Lilah, Grace, Dulcie’s admirer — 
Mr. Lister — and another man, in the break, and, imagin- 
ing that the devoted bridegroom would not like to be 
parted from his adored one, had arranged that they should 
drive in Alwyne’ s phaeton. Lady Lucy insisted on taking 
the reins* and during the greater part of the way Alwyne 
grumbled and found fault with her coachmanship and 
exhibited himself in an altogether different fashion from 
that he had done the previous evening. But Lady Lucy 
seemed absolutely indifferent to his ill-humor, and simply 
laughed at him and bade him “shut up” and not be a 
brute. 

During the al fresco luncheon Alw^yne’s displeasure in- 
creased at seeing the slavish attentions of George Lister 
to Dulcie. She accepted them gently enough, for she was 
so abjectly miserable that her one thought was to conceal 
her pain from the eyes of those present; and she there- 
fore feigned an interest in his conversation which she was 
very far from feeling. By the end of luncheon Alwyne’ s 
wrath had reached boiling-point ; and, with his usual will- 
ful disregard of what any one might think, he approached 
Dulcie and invited her to walk with him to see solne 
view in the neighborhood. Lister, however, showed no 
intention of quitting her side ; so, after they had walked 
a few paces, Alwyne turned sharply round upon him and 
said: 

“ My dear chap, I dare say you know the old saying that 
‘two is company.’ Miss Vernon is an old friend of mine, 
and I have not spoken to her for an age; whereas you have 
had the privilege, no doubt, every day lately. Perhaps you 
wdll let me escort her now, and Avhen I bring her back I 
promise not to interfere with your claims. ’ ’ 

Lister looked furious. 

“ If Miss Vernon wishes to be rid of my company, I will 
go at once,” he said, appealing eagerly to Dulcie; but she 
remained silent with downcast eyes. He was therefore 


ONCE AGAIN 


179 


compelled to take her silence as a proof that his society 
was not welcome; and, after a moment’s pause, he turned 
^n his heel, desperately vexed and wounded. 

Sir John and Eeine, who were both witnesses of this lit- 
tle episode, felt extremely uncomfortable on Lady Lucy’s 
account, and proceeded in concert to make themselves 
agreeable to her in order to divert her attention from her 
husband’s strange behavior, and Mrs. Herbert, with quick 
intuition, ably seconded them. But Lady Lucy was evi- 
dently not one whit disconcerted or displeased at Alwyne’s 
absence, and laughed and chatted away in the best of 
spirits. Lister attached himself to Lilah and Grace, as 
being the nearest approach to the rose, and the other 
young’men and maidens paired olf and were soon lost in 
the sylvan arcades. Mrs. Chester and Mrs. Vernon were 
not of the party, having thankfully relegated to the ladies 
from the dower- house the duties of chaperonage. 

Now that Alwyne had carried oif Dulcie in triumph, he 
did not appear to have very much to say to her. She was 
trembling in every limb; her eyes were averted from him; 
her embarrassment was evident. Eemarking his power 
over her, Alwyne received the necessary stimulus to his 
revengeful instincts. 

‘ ‘ I thought, ’ ’ he said, in a tone of cruel banter, ‘ ‘ that I 
was doing Lister a kindness in taking you away from him. 
You know it’s deuced hard on men to go on losing their 
hearts to you under the impression that you are ” — “fair 
game,” he was going to say, but changed it to “eligible. 

What has become of Mr. ? I forget his name; and 

how much longer are you going to keep him in the back- 
ground?” 

The brutal, bad taste of his remark was less obvious to 
Dulcie than his cruelty. Tears trembled on her lashes and 
fell ; he saw them, but they only goaded him on to an in- 
creased desire to hurt her. 

“ It really is an infernal shame,” he continued. “ I sup- 
pose you intend to let this wretched devil. Lister, break 
his heart about you. Do you mean to tell him the truth, 
or shall you wait until Mr. What’s-his name pounces upon 
him from behind a tree or somewhere? By Jove! you 
made me miserable enough, I know ; and if I had not met 
Lucy, who’s the dearest girl in the world, I might have 
blown my brains out, or gone to the devil, or God knows 
what!” 

Dulcie had very little dignity, but she was stung into re- 
plying: 

“ It is most fortunate that you did meet her. ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it is. But I don’t suppose such luck is 
in store for every man ; and I do say, as I said before, that 


180 


ONCE AGAIN 


it is an infernal shame your going about sailing under false 
colors. Of course, as long as a man does not see or know 
of any other fellow hanging about you, he always thinks 
he has a chance.” 

“ I have never given Mr. Lister the smallest encourage- 
ment,” cried Dulcie, indignantly. 

“I don’t know what you call encouragement,” retorted 
Alwyne. “I should call your behavior to him at lunch 
very decided encouragement. Perhaps you don’t consider 
that you encouraged me?” 

Dulcie was silent. She felt unutterably miserable ; she 
dared not say to him what was in her heart: “You know 
that I loved you, and that I hoped to be your wife in 
time. ’ ’ He was married ; it was no use raking up the past 
or confessing her humiliation. If he could forget so soon, 
it ill beseemed her to show that she remembered. 

But Alwyne’s appetite for revenge grew in exercising it, 
and he went on. 

“ Where is your husband now?” he asked. 

Even a worm will turn. Dulcie, who had no wit, no 
readiness whatever at cut and thrust in repartee, was 
goaded beyond endurance. 

‘ ‘ If you only brought me here to say these things to 
me,” she cried, “I will go back to the rest of the party. 
You are married; you are happy; leave me and my misery 
alone!” 

“Oh, by all means,” returned Alwyne, in a lofty tone. 
“ I beg your pardon; I will not presume to mention your 
affairs again. Still, as we have come so far, we may as 
well go on and see the view that I was supposed to show 
you. ’ ’ And for the rest of the way he discoursed entirely 
about his wife and her family, the delightful trip they had 
made in their honeymoon, the beauties of his own place, 
his horses, his dogs— on everything, in fact, that tended 
to his own self -exaltation and to show Dulcie what a loss 
she had sustained in him. Their tete-a-tete lasted some 
three-quarters of an hour. Never had Dulcie experienced 
such bitter mortification. She was not shrewd enough to 
see that, had Alwyne felt the indifference he professed, he 
would not have been at such pains to testify it to her, but 
would rather have been disposed to be the more kind and 
considerate. 

The pair rejoined their companions in very different 
frames of mind. Alwyne was jubilant in the extreme ; the 
gratification of his revenge had warmed his heart and 
made him almost boisterously good-humored. He threw 
himself down at his wife’s feet, called her “ little woman,” 
“darling,” amd various other endearing epithets, and xshe 


ONCE AGAIN 181 

received his advances with the same good-tempered indif- 
ference with which she had taken his absence. 

As for Dulcie, she could not command her face to any 
show of cheerfulness, and after what Alwyne had said she 
was positively terrified of appearing to give the smallest 
encouragement to George Lister. And suppose, she 
thought, Alwyne betrayed her, and the fact of her secret 
marriage were to get abroad. She had no guarantee that 
he would not confide her dreadful secret to his wife, and 
she no doubt would tell every one, and perhaps make a jest 
of it. Then she, Dulcie, would be eternally disgraced and 
undone. Why had she not taken advantage of being alone 
with him to implore him to keep her secret? She must do 
so yet; but when would she have another opportunity? 

This thought entirely" engrossed her mind, so that she 
did not even hear what George Lister was saying to her, 
or take any account of the tender reproaches he was pour- 
ing into her ear. At first, on her return with Alwyne, he 
had tried to sulk with her, but, finding that she did not 
even appear to remark this exhibition of his resentment, 
he abandoned it, and endeavored to appeal to her better 
feelings. Both tactics were equally unsuccessful. He 
therefore, after the nature of his kind, waxed more deeply 
in love at every fresh p?'oof of her indifference. 

How should she procure another interview with Alwyne 
in order to throw herself upon his clemency and to entreat 
his silence? 

This thought occupied her the whole afternoon. 

It had been arranged that all the members of the picnic- 
party should dine at the hall that evening, and after they 
had boiled their kettle and drunk smoky tea with apparent 
relish they prepared to return home in the same order in 
which they had come. Dulcie was not near enough to 
Alwyne to exchange a word with him. 

As she was descending to the drawing-room before din- 
ner, she saw him on the stairs in front of her. 

“ Mr. Temple,” she said, in a low voice, accelerating her 
speed. 

He turned. 

‘ ‘ I must speak to you, ’ ’ she whispered, in a hurried, 
agitated voice, coming up with him. 

At this moment steps were heard in the corridor above 
them. 

I will meet you in the garden after dinner,” he said. 
“By the limes. I will go out the moment we leave the 
dining-room.” 

Dulcie would have demurred, but there was no time. 
And, after all, she did not much mind how or where she 


182 ONCE AGAIN 

met him, so long as she could prevail upon him to keep her 
secret. 

When the ladies left the dinning-room she went to her 
room to wait until it was time to keep her tryst. 

The evening was lovely. The long twilight had not yet 
faded out ; there were still rosy gleams athwart the west- 
ern sky. Presently she crept down-stairs, and, going out 
through the French window of the morning room, took 
her way to the limes. There was a bench beneath the 
largest ol them, and there she seated herself and waited 
with what patience she might for the coming of her 
whilom lover, now turned into a bitter and revengeful 
foe. 

Poor Dulcie ! all joy and hope had gone out of her life ; 
she saw nothing before her but wretchedness and despair. 

A step on the gravel, and Alwyne, flushed, triumphant, 
handsome, stood before her. He was a little excited at 
the situation ; he had a pleasant sense that he was doing 
something a trifle hazardous and not quite right, and he 
had, besides, a delightful feeling that he was scoring over 
Lister. He had come with no wrong intent of any sort, 
but, as he looked at Dulcie, her fairness, which was of the 
type he most admired, smote him with a sudden sense of 
loss, and he felt something of the old tenderness for her 
creeping back to his heart. 

“Well,” he said, in a softened voice, with signs of melt- 
ing in his handsome eyes, ‘ ‘ I have come. What can I do 
for you?” 

And with that he sat down on the bench beside her, 
and, swayed by sudden impulse, took her hand. Her one 
thought was to propitiate him, and she did not attempt to 
draw it away. She had so utterly relinquished all idea 
that he cared for her that his action was without any sig- 
niflcance. 

She looked at him with appealing eyes: her voice 
faltered and trembled. The evidence of her weakness 
touched all his senses. Lucy had no weaknesses. 

‘ ' Oh, ’ ’ she almost gasped, ‘ ‘ I implore you to have pity 
on me and not to betray my dreadful secret ! If any one 
knew it, I should die outright.” 

And here she fell to weeping. 

“ My poor little girl, don’t cry!” said Alwyne, greatly 
touched. “ Of course I won’t. What do you take me for?” 

He clasped both her hands in his, and looked tenderly 
in her face, feeling repentant for his cruelty of the after- 
noon. 

“ I was a brute to-day,” he went on, penitently, “ but I 
did not mean it. I swear no one shall ever hear the least 
word from me. You know,” his tone growing very soft, 


ONCE AGAIN 183 

“ I was awfully fond of you, and, thougli of course that is 
all over now, I could not help feeling savage when I saw 
that txss Lister making love to you. ’ ’ 

Considering that it was all over, his gaze was rather 
ardent, his manner extremely tender, and the pressure of 
his hands not altogether indicative of a burnt-out flame. 
But propinquity is admittedly dangerous. 

“ Oh,” cried poor Dulcie, feeling this moment as though 
he were the only friend she had in the world, ‘ ‘ do not be 
unkind to me any more ! If /ou knew how wretched I am, 
you would be sorry for me. ’ ’ ' 

“ My poor dear little girl!” uttered Alwyne, genuinely 
touched. And, without any evil intent, he yielded to the 
strong temptation that seized him, and, putting his arm 
round her, drew her head tenderly on his breast. And at 
this precise moment, George Lister, with furious eyes, stood 
before them, crying, in a voice hoarse with rage: 

‘‘ By God! this is too bad!” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Alwyne and Diilcie sprung to their feet— the man full of 
wrath, the girl of terror. 

“ D n you ! what do you mean by coming spying here?” 

cried Alwyne, and he aimed a blow at Lister which sent 
him reeling. Recovering himself, George sprung upon his 
foe like a bull -dog, and in a moment the two were engaged 
in mortal combat. 

Dulcie shrieked aloud, and her shrieks brought speedy 
aid in the person of Jack, who had missed the two men, 
and was searching for them to join in a dance which had 
been proposed in the drawing-room. 

Horrified at the sight which greeted him, he flung him- 
self upon the combatants. 

“Are you mad?” he cried. “Do you want to raise the 
whole house?” 

Quivering with rage, perhaps not wholly unmixed with 
shame, the two men stood panting and glaring at each 
other. 

“ Pray, Miss Vernon, go in at once!” said Jack; and ter- 
rified as she was, Dulcie could not fail to remark the stern 
displeasure of his tone. She crept away, feeling the most 
guilty and miserable wretch in the world. What awful 
Nemesis perpetually dogged her footsteps and led her into 
the most appalling situations! An agonized fear smote 
her that Lister w^ould tell what he had seen, that this terri- 
ble affray would soon be public property, and that she was 
forevermore disgraced and ruined. Wild visions of flight 
gped across her brain— she would never be able to face her 


184 


ONCE again. 


mother if this fearful story were made known to her. 
Cowering and terrified, trembling in every limb, she took 
her way to her room. 

Meantime, Jack, full of righteous wrath, was giving the 
combatants a piece of his mind, and they received it very 
much as hounds with guilty consciences take a rating. 

“ Upon my soul,” he cried, “this is a nice gentlemanlike 
thing, to maul each other like two costermongers before a 
lady! And you, Alwyne, with a wife! A pretty figure 
you will cut in this disgraceful business ! Ibr God’s sake 
get away quietly to your own room, and stop there till I 
come to you! George, I must get you in the back way 
somehow. ’ ’ 

For poor Lister’s nose was ignobly dripping blood beyond 
the powers of a handkerchief to control, and his shirt-front 
bore fearful testimony to the fray. 

Jack succeeded in getting bis guest by the back staircase 
to his own room, and when his friend’s nose was sufficiently 
stanched to make conversation possible, he sternly re- 
quested an explanation. 

“The scoundrel!” cried George, with many adjectives 
and expletives. ‘ ‘ Only married a month, too ! And God 
knows, ’ ’ with a gulp in his throat, ‘ ‘ how I loved that girl ! 
My greatest hope in the world was to marry her. I missed 
her out of the drawing-room, and then I saw him sneak off, 
and I was determined he should not be alone with her ; 
so in a minute or two I went after them, and there I found 
the blackguard with the girl in his arms.” 

“Well,” said Jack, who was horrified in his mind, 
thinking of poor Lady Lucy as well as of Dulcie, and cursing 
Alwyne in his heart for an unprincipled scoundrel. 

“Well, my feelings got the better of me, and I con- 
fronted them, and cried out that it was too bad, and he 

started up and struck at me. But, by , he has not 

heard the last of it ! I’ll fight him. By I will!” 

“I don’t think you will,” returned Jack, coolly. “If 
you are a gentleman, as until to-night I took you to be, you 
won’t bring disgrace and misery upon poor innocent 
Avomen — at all events,” correcting himseliT “upon one.” 

“ It wasn’t her fault, I SAvear !’' cried George, flaring up 
in her defense : “it Avas his. He always was an infernal 
blackguard about women : you kiiOAV he was, though he is 
your cousin.” 

Jack had not the smallest inclination to defend Ahvyne, 
Avith whom he was furious. 

“Look here, George,” he said, quietly. “Miss Vernon 
is under my roof, and, as my guest, any one who causes 
trouble or annoyance to her has to answer to me. You 
haA-e got to SAvear on your honor as a gentleman, before 


ONCE AGAIN 


185 


you leave this room, that you will never breathe a word to 
living soul about having seen her in Alwyne’s arms. If 
you have any further quarrel with him, the whole thing is 
bound to come out; and that I swear it shall not.” 

Lister was a young fellow of honorable instincts. 

” Do you suppose,” he said, reproachfully, '‘that I would 
hurt a hair of the girl’s head?” 

And then, poor boy, overcome by his feelings, he buried 
his face in his hands and gave a convulsive sob. 

“ I did love her so !” he went on, presently; and Jack, 
greatly touched, his honest heart full of sympathy, laid a 
kind hand on Lister’s shoulder, saying : 

” It is awful hard lines, poor old chap. Don’t think too 
badly of the girl,” he went on, after a pause. “ You know 
there is no doubt she was very fond of Alwyne last winter, 
and so was he of her, and then, for some reason or other, 
no one knows why, her mother interfered and sent him 
about his business. And I dare say it was only some little 
explanation they were having, and perhaps neither meant 
any harm ; only you know it is awfully dangerous for people 
to be out in the moonlight together, and I wish to heaven, ’ ’ 
wound up Jack, vigorously, “ that you had had the sense 
to keep out of the way.” 

‘ ‘ I wish I had, now, ’ ’ groaned George. 

“Well, I must go back to the drawing-room and make 
the best story I can,” said Jack. “ I suppose I had better 
order your trap and say you’ve gone home with a head- 
ache. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, ” responded Lister. “I’ll get in at the stables. 
Send my coat up to me here to cover myself up with.” 

“ All right. I’ll ride over’ and see you to-morrow. And 
you swear to keep this dark?” 

“I swear, but only for her sake. By George, I should 
like ” 

But Jack cut him short by leaving the room. 

The ladies were waiting in wondering expectation for the 
arrival of theit* swains. Jack put on the most cheerful air 
he could muster. 

“I’m afraid we shan’t manage a dance to-night,” he 
said. “ Lister has gone home seedy, and I can’t persuade 
Alwyne to leave his cigar, ” he added, mendaciously, hating 
himself for having to tell even so trifling a lie. 

“ I will go and fetch him,” cried Lady Lucy. “How 
lazy of him ! W here is he?” 

“ I saw him last in the garden,” answered Jack, fearful 
lest she should seek him in his room. 

Lady I ucy ran off to the garden, accompanied by the 
only remaining man, and Jack went to his cousin’s room to 
see what ti*aces he bore of the fray. 


186 


ONCE AGAIN, 


One glance at him showed that he w^ould develop a' fine 
black eye by the morrow, and so disconcerted was Jack by 
this discovery that he forgot to reproach him. 

“ What the deuce are you going to say to your wife?” he 
cried, anxiously. “ You must invent something. Say you 
tumbled over the roots of a tree. You must never let out 
one word of this to a soul. Lister is gone ; he will hold his 
tongue; now you had better think how to make your story 
good. I can’t stop, or people will begin to fancy there’s 
something up. ’ ’ 

As he left the room, it occurred to Jack that there was 
yet another person to be thought of. Dulcie was probably 
still in fear and trembling and uncertain what course events 
had taken. He paused to think. He did not like the idea 
of going to her room, but still less did he like that of writ- 
ing to her and sending the note by a servant. 

He went on tiptoe to the corridor where her room was, 
and tapped softly at the door. She opened it with a scared 
look, and his heart was touched by compassion in a 
moment. 

‘ ‘ Come down-stairs, ’ ’ he whispered, gently. ‘ ‘ Not a soul 
will ever know a word of what has happened ; and I hope 
you feel that you can trust me.” 

Without another word, he sped noiselessly away and re- 
turned to the drawing-room. 

But Dulcie’s nerves were too sorely shaken to admit of 
her reappearing in public that night. Believed of her 
w'orst terrors, she hastened to disrobe, and when Grace 
came to look for her she pleaded fatigue and indisposition 
and announced her intention of going to bed at once. 

Mrs. Vernon had been extremely uncomfortable mean- 
time. The simultaneous disappearance of Alwyne and 
her daughter had filled her with apprehension, and when 
Grace brought word that Dulcie had gone to bed with a 
headache she was by no means reassured, remembering 
what had come of her pretended headache on a previous 
occasion. 

She, however, refrained from going to see Dulcie: it was 
impossible, she felt, despairingly, to contend with or over- 
come her folly : so she left her to her fate. On inquiring of 
Morton later on, she elicited that Dulcie really seemed ex- 
tremely unwell ; but she contented herself with recommend- 
ing the maid to see that she had all she wanted. 

Lady Lucy raced all over the grounds in pursuit of the 
recalcitrant Alwyne, but in vain. Then she sought him in 
the smoking-room, with no better success. Finally she pro- 
ceeded to his dressing-room ; and here she found him. He 
was so horribly frightened and felt so guilty that it had the 
effect of making him extremely amiable, 


ONCE AGAIN, 


187 


“Why, Ahvyne,” cried her ladyship, “what on earth 
have you done to your eye?” 

He affected to treat the matter in a light and airy man- 
ner. 

“The fact is, my dear girl,” he answered, pleasantly, 

‘ ‘ that I went out to have a smoke and came a most infer- 
nal cropper over the roots of one of those confounded old 
trees and hit my eye against a garden-seat. It’s rather a 
mercy I didn’t put it out.” 

“Poor, dear boy!”- said Lady Lucy, kindly. “But, you 
know, it rather serves you right for not coming in to dance 
when we wanted you.” 

“Well, I can’t come now, anyhow,” he returned, still 
quite pleasantly. “I’m afraid I shall have a horrid black 
eye to-morrow. Such a nice, respectable sort of thing, 
tool” he added, forcing a laugh. 

“ It is rather awkward,” she assented. “But every one 
will know you can’t have got it fighting.” 

And she laughed cheerfully, without the smallest arriere- 
pensee. 

“You had better go down again, Lu,” remarked Al- 
wyne, “ and don’t make any fuss about it. It will only 
worry my aunt.” 

Lady Lucy returned to the drawing-room, and naively 
related the story of Alwyne’s accident with her own little 
theory of retributive justice, but also with many expres- 
sions of wifely compassion. 

The party soon broke up, to Sir John’s unspeakable re- 
lief. For once he could even say good-bye to Mrs. Chandos 
without wishing to detain her. When the last guest was 
gone, he went back to Alwyne. He had never set up for 
being a censor of morals ; he was never down upon any one ; 
but he had a deep and indignant sense that his cousin had 
behaved like a villain to a woman under his roof, and he 
intended to have an assurance that there should be no re- 
currence of the love -passages of this evening. Jack was 
very diffident, as a rule, about interfering or giving ad- 
vice: he had, however, a very strong sense of honor, and 
this gave him the necessary resolution to say out straightly 
what was in his mind. 

As he entered the room, Alwyne saw by the look in his 
eyes and the unusual sternness of his manner that there 
was to be a reckoning between them. But for the fact of 
his having a wife and the horrible fear of her getting to 
know what had happened, he would probably have brazened 
the matter out ; but now he hastened to say, in his most 
propitiatory manner : 

“This is a deuced unlucky business. Jack, and I am 
awfully sorry for my share in it” 


188 


ONCE AGAIN 


“It is something more than unlucky,” said Jack, 
warmly. “ It is utterly disgraceful; and I don’t see what 
excuse you can make for it in any way.” 

“ Look here, Jack,” cried Alwyne, “ I give you my word 
of honor that I meant no harm, and that there would have 
been none if that blundering ass Lister had not come play- 
ing the spy. ’ ’ 

“You mean you would not have been found out,” re- 
torted Jack, indignantly. 

“ Listen, my dear old chap !” cried Alwyne. “ I will tell 
you exactly what happened. You know how awfully fond 
I was of that poor little girl last winter, and that I wanted 
to marry her. Well, I couldn’t: I cannot explain why to 
you, but there was a very good reason. I admit that I 
proposed to Lucy out of pique, but I am extremely fond of 
her; she’s a real good sort, and I would not do anything 
wrong by her for the world. Wait a bit!” as Jack looked 
incredulous. 

“ I must own I was rather unkind to poor Dulcie Ver- 
non to-day, and said some nasty things to her at the picnic, 
and she took it dreadfully to heart, and when we met on 
the stairs going down to dinner she said she had something 
she wanted to say to me, and I proposed meeting her under 
the limes when we came out from dinner. Well, when -we 
were there, the poor little thing began to cry, and I felt 
awfully sorry for her— you know. Jack, it does upset one 
to see a woman cry — and I swear to you upon my soul that 
without the very l^ast thought of harm to her or Lucy, 
just out of sheer good feeling, I put my arm round the poor 
little girl to comfort her, and then I looked up and saw 
that fool Lister standing gibbering in front of us like an 
ape. So I lost my temper and let out at him.” 

“Ah!” said Jack. “I thought it was understood that 
gentlemen did not brawl and strike each other before a 
woman. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I grant I was wrong,” admitted Alwyne; “but I 
was so infernally pro voked. ” 

“And suppose,” suggested Jack, “that I had not by 
good fortune come along, or that any of the servants, hear- 
ing Miss Vernon scream, had rushed out; a pretty business 
it would have been for you and your wife and her!” 

“Oh, well,” returned Alwyne, “thank God it turned 
out as it did. You don’t think,” eagerly, “that anyone 
suspects anything?” 

“I don’t know that any one does,” returned Jack; “ but 
things have a nasty way of leaking out. However, I 
shall do my best, you may depend, to keep it quiet. And 
now, if you will take my advice, you will order your 
phaeton to-morrow morning directly after breakfast, and 


OJSCE AGAIN. 


189 


not wait till the afternoon. The sooner you put a good dis- 
tance between yourself and Miss Vernon, the better for all 
parties concerned.” 

“Yes, that will be the best thing, no doubt,” assented 
Alwyne, with a good grace. “ But, my good fellow, don’t 
run away with any mistaken notion that 1 am still in love 
with Duicie Vernon, or that I am not devoted to Lucy.” 

Jack made no answer to this, but, bidding his cousin 
good-night, left him with anything but a light heart, and 
secretly cursing his selfishness. It was all very well for 
him; but what about the poor girl? 

It was no feigned indisposition on Duicie’ s part that pre- 
vented her going down to breakfast the next morning. 
Fear and agitation had kept sleep from her eyes ; in spite 
of Jack’s reassuring words, she felt no confidence that this 
dreadful affair would remain a secret, and her cheeks were 
hot with shame at the recollection of the compromising 
situation in which George Lister had seen her. How 
could she hope or expect that an angry man, burning with 
jealousy, would keep her secret or put any but the worst 
construction on her conduct? Poor Duicie told herself 
over and over again that she had meant no harm; she 
hardly knew how it came to pass that Alwyne’ s arm had 
stolen round her; she only knew that she had been un- 
utterably miserable, and that Alwyne’ s kindness and his 
caress had soothed her. 

' This morning her head ached and throbbed : she could 
not raise it from the pillow. 

Alwyne, on the contrary, appeared at breakfast in the 
most cheerful and amiable of moods — laughed at his own 
misfortune, and was thoroughly pleasant all round. His 
wife’s maid had confectioned him a black silk patch which 
concealed the discolored orb, and he declared that, as he 
could not see to drive with one eye, he must trust his life 
and limbs to Lucy’s coachmanship. 

Lilah’s sharp eyes scarcely quitted him, and she con- 
fided to Grace afterward that Alwyne seldom made him- 
self so agreeable unless he had a guilty conscience ; and, 
indeed, she formed a tolerably shrewd guess that some 
fracas had occurred in which he. Lister, and Duicie had 
been engaged. 

When the bride and bridegroom had departed, amidst 
much bustle and commotion, and with many friendly ex- 

E ressions on all sides. Jack ordered his horse and betook 
imself to visit the other combatant. He found him with 
his good looks somewhat impaired by a swelled nose and a 
bump on his forehead. Moreover, he was in a state of the 
deepest dejection. 

“ I was so awfully fond of that girl !” he groaned, almost 


190 


ONCE AGAIN 


in tear^^ ‘‘I had made tip my mind to marry her if she 
would have me; and now, of course, all that is over.'” 

Jack chivalrously did his best to explain away Dulcie’s 
nomentary weakness, and then went so far as to say : 

“ I am afraid Miss Vernon does not mean to marry. If 
she had, she would, I think, have taken Alwyne, whom she 
really seemed to like, last winter.” 

“ I don’t suppose I ever had a chance,” returned Lister, 
despondently; ” but, even if I had, I should have given up 
the idea after this. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear chap, ’ ’ said Jack, diffidently, only anxious to 
make the best of the matter for Dulcie, ‘ ‘ I suppose one can 
hardly expect to marry a woman who has never liked any 
one else. ’ ’ 

“ No, I dare say not,” answered George, moodily. But 
I draw the line at a married man. If a girl will go on with 
him, she isn’t to be trusted ; you mark my words, i shall 
go up to London to-morrow when I look a little more re- 
spectable,” walking up to the glass and inspecting himself, 
” and I sha’n’t come back until she has left you. Send me 
a line. Jack, will you?” 

“All right,” he replied, cheerfully; then, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “ I say, George, I dare say Miss Vernon feels 
rather bad about what happened. I should like to be able 
to give her your word of honor that — that it is quite safe 
with you.” * 

“Do, by all means,” answered George: “there’s my 
hand on it. And — and. Jack,” faltering, “you might tell 
her how awfully fond I was of her.” 

“ No, no,” cried Jack; “let us hope you will be able to 
tell her that yourself one of these days. Good-bye, 
George. ” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ That was rather a mysterious affair last night, was it 
not?” Mrs. Herbert remarked to Heine, as they sat in two 
lounging-chairs under the shade of a big tree in the gar- 
den. ‘ ‘ Mr. Lister suddenly taken ill, Mr. Temple tumb- 
ling over a tree, and your cousin disappearing altogether. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, it was,” returned Heine, a thoughtful frown draw- 
ing her brows together. She felt slightly embarrassed by 
her knowledge of Dulcie’s affairs, for she had not a secret 
in the world of her own from Mrs. Herbert, and would 
gladly have discussed this with her, but for a sense of 
honor, which restrained her from confiding her cousin’s 
dilemma even to so discreet a lady as Mrs. Herbert. 

On her part, Mrs. Herbert never imagined for a moment 
that there was any secret in the case, or that she was cans- 


ONCE AGAIN, 


191 


ing the smallest embarrassment to Reine by mentioning 
the matter. They were accustomed to speak of everything 
to each other without reserve. 

“Mr. Lister seemed extremely put out in the afternoon,” 
resumed Mrs. Herbert, “when Mr. Temple so coolly car- 
ried the young lady off. It is fortunate that Lady Lucy 
is not of a jealous disposition, or she might not have been 
very well pleased at her husband's behavior. Dulcie is a 
pretty, sweet-mannered girl. I am not surprised at men 
losing their hearts to her ; but I do wonder a little at her 
obduracy. I suppose Mr. Temple was very devoted to her 
last winter, and she seemed to like him. Why did she not 
marry him?” 

“ My dear Mia,” returned Reine, disingenuously, “who 
can answer for the caprices of a woman, still less a girl? 
And, besides, she might have liked him very much without 
feeling any inclination to marry him. ’ ’ 

“ Perhaps it runs in the family to object to marriage,” 
remarked Mrs. Herbert, apparently occupied in contem- 
plating the stones in one of her rings. 

‘ ‘ The experience of some of its members would not be 
calculated to tempt others to try it,” rejoined Reine. 

Mrs. Herbert promptly changed the subject, assuming 
from the tone of her friend's voice that the subject was 
not agreeable to her. 

. “ I think,” she said, “ that Sir John behaved with great 

tact and discretion last night.” 

Reine smiled maliciously. 

“ Anything serves to give you an opportunity for glori- 
fying the beloved object, Mia, ” she observed. ‘ ‘ How weak 
you are about that young. man.” 

“ I am very fond of him, certainly,” assented Mrs. Her- 
bert. 

“ I shall not be surprised at any time,” resumed Reine, 
“ to hear that you are about to become Lady Chester.” 

“Poor, dear boy! What a fate for him!” smiled Mrs. 
Herbert. “No! but if he were an impecunious orphan I 
should be strongly tempted to adopt him.” 

“Talk of an angel and you hear his wings,” laughed 
Reine. ‘ ‘ Here comes your paragon !’ ’ 

Jack was advancing swiftly toward them, his face light- 
ing up with pleasure as he approached. 

“ You must stop and lunch with us,” said Mrs. Herbert, 
and he accepted, gladly. “And now,” she continued, 
doing something quite opposed to her usual practice, “ I am 
going to ask you two to entertain each other for a quarter 
of an hour. I have two letters that I positively must 
write, and if I do not write them before lunch there is 
very small chance of their being ready by post-time.” 


192 


ONC^: AGAIN, 


Reine had quite a friendly feeling for Jack now, and had 
forgotten that he had once been accused of being in love 
with her. So she was quite unembarrassed at being left 
alone with him, and not disposed to suspect any treachery 
on the part of her friend. 

‘‘ How is your cousin this morning?” she asked. ” Has 
he recovered from his accident?” 

“ He has rather a black eye,” returned Jack, “ but it is 
covered up with a patch, so there is not much to be seen. 
They started directly after breakfast, and are half-way 
home by now.” 

“And the rest of your party?” inquired Reine; “are 
they all well?” 

“Quite, thanks,” he answered, “except Miss Vernon, 
who is still suffering from headache and was not able to 
come down to breakfast. ’ ’ 

Reine looked at him rather fixedly, and said, suddenly : 

“Was Dulcie in the garden last night when Mr. Temple 
met with his accident?” 

“Was she not in her room?” asked Jack, seeing some- 
thing of an engrossingly interesting nature which caused 
him for a moment to turn his face away from Mrs. Chan- 
dos. 

Many women under the circumstances, seeing what a 
poor figure Jack cut at dissembling, would have plied him 
with questions and have tried to wring the truth from him ; 
but Reine could appreciate loyalty and respect a man for 
not betraying a confidence ; so she simply answered, ‘ ‘ Ah, 
yes, I sup])ose she was,” and proceeded to compliment him 
upon the success of yesterday’s picnic. 

“ Have you been writing any poetry lately Jack vent- 
ured to ask, presently. 

“ You will be glad to hear that I have not,” smiled Reine, 
with a trifle of malice in her tone. “ I know that you do 
not approve of my verses.” 

Jack flushed crimson. 

“ Why do you say that?” he cried, in great distress. “ I 
think them most beautiful. Only,” hesitating, “only I 
wished so much that you would write something — something 
happier, as if you took a cheerful view of life.” 

“Something comic?” suggested Reine, taking pleasure in 
teasing him. ‘ * Do you think I could write the words for a 
good music-hall song, or something of that sort?” Then, 
seeing how dreadfully pained he looked, she added, “No! 
my muse is a sorrowful one, and must always be so. It is 
a good sign that I have not been writing lately, for it proves 
that I have not been unhappy.” 

“ I am so glad to hear you say that!” he returned, with 
more ardor than the occasion seemed to require. “You 


ONCE AGAIN. 


193 


ought always to be happy. You were never meant for any- 
thing else. ’ ’ 

“ When I was a child,” said Eeine, not appearing to ob- 
serve the intensity of his expression, I had my horoscope 
cast by an old man who lived in the village close by my 
grandmother’s place. It was written on a dirty piece of 
paper, and contained abstruse and rather ill-spelt refer- 
ences to various planets. The only part of it which I re- 
member is the prediction that I was to be ‘ immersed in 
sorrow and trouble while young, but happy in old age.’ 
3o I am rather looking forward to that halcyon time, in 
the hope that, as the first part of the prophecy has been 
correct, the last may also be realized.” 

‘‘But you will have a long time to wait for that,” re- 
marked Jack. 

‘ ‘ Not so very long, ’ ’ she answered, indifferently. ‘ ‘ Now, ’ ’ 
smiling, “be good enough not to rack your brain for a 
compliment ; there is nothing I dislike so much. By the 
way, ’ ’ with a swift change of tone, ‘ ‘ have you heard our 
news? Do you know that we are to have a guest at the 
dower- house?” 

With a lover’s proneness to jealousy, Jack felt a twinge 
at this announcement. He did his best to conceal it, and 
said : 

, ‘ ‘ Keally, ” in an interested voice. 

“Guess!’’ commanded Eeine, smiling; and he guessed 
with perfect correctness. 

“I think by your looking so pleased that it must be • 
Berti'am,” he replied. 

‘ ‘ How clever of you 1” laughed Eeine. ^ ‘ Yes, it is Henry 
Bertram. Mia and I have been quite excited ever since 
we had his acceptance this morning.” 

Jack did not look quite as though he shared their satis- 
faction. True, his fears had slumbered in London, but 
they were quite ready to spring up again. A man has 
such opportunities in the country and staying in the same 
house with a woman. 

“ It will be very delightful for him, no doubt,” said Jack, 
in a somewhat embarrassed tone. 

“And for us too,” returned Eeine. “ He will bring us 
all the very latest news and gossip ; it will be equivalent to 
a week’s visit to London — not in this dull time, but in the 
height of the season. He always hears everything, and 
has a wonderful talejit for retailing it.’’ 

“ I should not have thought you were fond of scandal,” 
remarked Jack, in a slightly aggrieved tone. 

‘ ‘ I did not say scandal ; I said gossip, ’ ’ returned Eeine. 
‘‘Please to note the distinction.” 

“ A distinction without a difference,” said Jack, whose 


194 ONCE AGAIN 

feathers were ruffled at the thought of an interloper in his 
Eden. 

“ A distinction with a very great diiference,” insisted 
Reine. ‘ ‘ Gossip is good-natured, scandal is ill-natured. 
No one ever heard Henry Bertram say anything ill-natured. 
You know, Sir John, that you never did.” 

“No, certainly,” replied Jack, “I cannot say that I ever 
did.” 

“ I thought you liked him,” observed Reine, rather un- 
kindly. ‘ ‘ And yet you do not seem at all pleased to hear 
he is coming. We were going to ask you to come and 
help us entertain him ; but I am afraid you will not care to 
come. ’ ’ 

“I shall be delighted to come,” cried poor Jack, with 
energy, seriously alarmed at the thought of being ousted 
from Paradise. “And I hope that he will come up to us, 
too. .My mother will, I know, be charmed to see him. 
She talked so much about him after meeting him at Mrs. 
Herbert’s.” 

“ She has no idea what a terrible wolf in sheep’s cloth- 
ing he is,” laughed Reine. “However, he has never de- 
voured a lamb yet. ’ ’ 

“Except you,” thought Jack, sorrowfully, looking hard 
at her; and Reine, being a thought-reader, divined his 
glance at once. 

“No one,” she said, with warmth, “ever heard him say 
a word to shock a person’s prejudices. He never speaks 
of his belief or his unbelief before any one whose opinions 
do not coincide with his own.” 

“Still, he does not believe in anything,” replied Jack, 
with an obstinate design of falling foul of Bertram, since 
Reine had appeared so delighted at the prospect of his 
coming. 

‘ ‘ At all events, ’ ’ retorted Mrs. Chandos, ‘ ‘ if his views 
do not coincide with those of many ‘ professing Christians, ’ 
as they are called, his actions are, as a rule, worth fifty of 
theirs.” 

It was rather fortunate that at this moment the lunch- 
eon-bell rang, and the pair, somewhat ruffled, took their 
way to the house. 

Mrs. Herbert saw in an instant that her favorites were 
not quite in harmony, and exerted herself to restore cor- 
dial relations. 

‘ ‘ I hope, ’ ’ she thought, ‘ ‘ that foolish boy has not been 
trying to improve the occasion by declaring his passion.” 
But she was soon enlightened as to the cause of his 
despondent mien. 

“ I have been telling Sir John our delightful news,” said 
Reine, being considerate enough however, to choose a mo- 


ONCE AGAIN. 


195 


ment when the servants had left the room, “and he does 
not in the very least share our enthusiasm.” 

Mrs. Herbert immediately ranged herself on Jack’s side, 
thinking it very unkind of Eeine to torment him. 

“Perhaps he does not express it in so exaggerated a 
manner as you do, my love,” she remarked. “ But I am 
quite sure Sir John will be pleased to see Henry, for they 
are the best of friends, and I am looking forward to his 
helping us to entertain our guest. A man cannot be ah 
w^ays with women : he wants a friend of his own sex to 
smoke with and talk to about sport and other congenial 
topics. I know Sir John will be delighted to give him a 
mount and show him the country.” 

Jack’s face brightened in a moment. As long as he was 
not to be left out in the cold, the best horse in his stables 
was at Bertram’s service, and he was ready to show him 
any amount of hospitality. ' 

“ And four is such a pleasant number,” proceeded Mrs. 
Herbert. “ I have a great deal to say to Henry, and it 
will be your task, ” with a mischievous glance at Eeine, 
“to rescue Mrs. Chandos from the disagreeable part of 
third.” 

“ Indeed, my dear Mia,” returned Eeine, with spirit, “if 
you^think you are going to have the monopoly of Mr. Ber- 
tram you are very much’ mistaken. And,” maliciously, 
“I really cannot undertake to console Sir John for your 
neglect, or to be made apis oiler tor him.” 

“How unkind you are!” said poor Jack’s eyes, quite 
plainly ; but Mrs. Herbert laughed. 

“ You are too modest, my dear; but still you must not 
expect always to carry everything before you, and when 
you have the misfortune to be in company with a woman 
so much younger and more attractive in every way than 
yourself, you must be prepared for an occasional reverse.” 

‘ ‘ I will endeavor to adapt myself to circumstances, ’ ’ re- 
turned Eeine, trying by an assumption of extreme gravity 
to spoil her friend’s little ‘joke. Harmony was, however, 
completely restored by this time, and the three repaired 
to the garden to drink coffee, and Jack remained in great 
contentment until Mrs. Herbert’s horses came prancing 
round to the door, when, with a thousand apologies and 
much expressed astonishment at the rapid flight of time, 
he took his leave. 

As he rode up the drive on reaching the Hall, he caught 
sight of Bulcie sitting alone in the garden. He left his 
horse at the stables and went to join her. She greeted 
him with a smile that was a very poor make-believe of 
mirth, and he felt quite concerned to see how" wan and 
white she looked. 


190 


ONCE AGAIN. 


“I am afraid you are not at all well,” he said, in a very 
kind voice, sitting down beside her. He could never bear 
to see a woman suffer, and he saw at a glance that Dulcie 
was suffering both in mind and body. 

She put her hand to her forehead with a w^eary gesture. 

“ My head aches,” she said. ” That is wdiy I stayed. at 
home." The others have all gone out.” 

” I am so sorry,” returned Jack. “ Can I not do any- 
thing for you?” 

She hesitated a moment ; then, gaining confidence from 
the extreme kindness of his tone, she said : 

” Have you seen Mr. Lister?” 

“Yes,” he replied, anxious to say anything that miglit 
relieve her mind. “ I was over there this morning. He is 
going up to London to-morrow" or next day, and — and — he 
gave me his word of honor as a gentleman that nothing 
should come out about last night.” 

“ Oh!” gasped Dulcie, with intense relief . “ And do you 

think he is to be trusted?” 

‘ ‘ I am sure of it, ’ ’ returned Jack, cordially. 

Dulcie looked up at him, and then away again. 

“ I do not know what you can think of me,” she said, 
blushing painfully, “but indeed ” 

“I do not think anything,” Jack interrupted, hastily. 
“I have no wish to pry into other people’s affairs. No 
doubt it was all a misunderstanding ; but please do not ex- 
plain it to me. I am quite sure it is better iTot to discuss 
it. Don’t you think,” abruptly changing the subject, 
“that it would do you good to have a little fresh air? 
Come for a drive wdth me. I’ll have* my phaeton round in 
half an hour, if you wdll.” 

Yes, Dulcie said, she w^ould be very glad to go with him. 
Her own company had become intolerable to her, and she 
was only too thankful to be taken out of herself. So Jack 
went back to the stables, and she strolled into the house to 
get her hat. 

During the drive Jack laid himself out to the utmost to 
amuse her, and, seeing through his kind intention and feel- 
ing extremely grateful to him, Dulcie smiled and talked, 
and affected a gayety she was far from feeling. Still, the 
effort did her good, and she returned to the Hall in a very 
much more clieerful frame of mind than that in which she 
had left it. Ail the evening she kept up a semblance of 
good spirits, and Sir John was so constantly at her side 
that his mother was delighted, and had serious hopes that 
he was getting -weaned from his allegiance to the dangerous 
Mrs. Chandos. 

His kindness was not lost upon Dulcie, wdio put no inis- 
•construction upon it. She could not help contrasting him 


ONCE AGAIN. 


197 


with Alwyne, and thinking how unkind aiid inconsiderate 
the latter had been toward her. Apd then her thoughts 
went back to Noel, and, for the first time for many months, 
she wished that the accident had not happened — that she 
had gone away with him whilst she loved him, and that 
she had never met Alwyne. No doubt she would have 
been perfectly happy now as Noel’s wife, and in India she 
would have been adored and made much of. And now 
what had she to look forward to? She hated being with 
her mother, who looked upon her as a burden, and she 
wished that she had consented to marry Noel, as her 
mother had desired, and gone away out of the country 
with him. She could not have been more miserable than 
she was now ; nay, she could not have been half so misera- 
ble. She was fond of him once ; why should she not come 
to care for him again, now that there was no longer any 
hope of Alwyne? And, remembering Alwyne’s ostenta- 
tious attentions to his wife, and the pains he had been at 
during that walk in the wood to mortify and vex her, the 
thought occurred to her that, after all, he was hardly worth 
wearing the willow for. 

But she went to sleep that night without seeing a way 
out of her misery, and thankful only for one thing — that 
her secret was not betrayed, and that the disgrace she had 
feared had not overtaken her. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Henry Bertram had arrived, had been welcomed with 
cordial delight by the ladies at the dov/er house, and now 
having done justice to an excellent dinner, was sitting with 
them on the veranda outside the drawing-room windows. 

“ Here indeed is the happy valley!” he exclaimed, with 
a sigh of hien-etre ; “here, far from the world, from its 
cares, ambitions — worst of all, its pleasures — might a man’s 
heart know rest I I feel at this moment as though I never 
want to see a town again, but could spend the remainder 
of my life in serene contemplation, always provided, ” smil- 
ing, “ that I might have the same delightful objects to con- 
template. ’ ’ 

“ Think so as long as you can, my dear Henry,” returned 
Mrs. Herbert. “ We are flattered to have inspired these 
sentiments in you, if but for half an hour; and, as you will 
only give us the pleasure of your company for so short a 
time, we shall take the greatest pains to keep up the illusion ; 
shall we not, Reine?” 

“ I trust,” said Bertram, fervently, “ that you have not 
been making plans to amuse me ; because I consider the 


198 ONCE AGAIN. 

very most delightful thing in life is to do nothing in pleas- 
ant company, 

“Oh,” said Keine, teasingly, “Mia has filled up every 
hour for you. She will not allow me any of your society, 
for fear I should bore you, ejnd with break of day Sir John 
Chester is to arrive with fleet steeds, and you are to scour 
the country with him and be shown every show-place, ruin, 
view, and object of interest in the county.” 

Bertram made a gesture of mock dismay. 

‘ ‘ How much of this is fact, and how much the imagina- 
tion of the poetess?” he* asked, of Mrs. Herbert. 

“It is like the inspiration of most poets,” laughed his 
hostess — “truth seen either through a magnifying-glass, or 
like a face reflected in a spoon — anything but actual fact, 
and yet inspired by fact. Sir John has offered to place his 
stables at your disposal, and it is for you to accept or decline 
as your fancy dictates.” 

“I like that lad, and shall be glad to meet him again,” 
remarked Bertram, not unmindful of what Mrs. Herbert 
had confided to him of her match-making plans. 

“Oh, pray,” cried Eeine, “ do not set Mia off on the sub- 
ject of her paragon. I hear of nothing but his perfections 
all day long when you are not here ; for pity’s sake let us 
have a new theme now !” 

“Do not believe her !” interrupted Mrs. Herbert. “ But if 
I do speak well of him,” turning to Mrs. Chandos, “ pray 
what do I say that. is more than true?” 

“ I humble myself in the dust, Mia,” returned her friend. 
“ I admit that he is the handsomest, the wittiest, the most 
heroic, the most pattern young man altogether in the three 
countries — nay, in Europe, in the whole world. Will that 
content you?” 

“ Not at all. Exaggerated praise is contempt in disguise. 
I never said more than that Sir John was very amiable and 
kind-hearted, and the best son in the world.” 

“You will see, Henry,” said Eeine, maliciously, “that 
we shall dance at the wedding yet. Indeed, I suppose it will 
be your pleasing task to give the bride away.” 

“ I hope we shall all be at his wedding,” remarked Mrs. 
Herbert, “ and that his wife will be worthy of him.” 

‘ ‘ How unkind of you ! Poor young man ! As if he is not 
much happier now than he could possibly be with a wife to 
torment him!” 

“Why should she torment him, pray?” asked Mrs. Her- 
bert. “If she were a nice woman, she would be devoted to 
inm.” 

“She would probably not be a nice woman,” retorted 
Eeine. “Nice people never marry each other; one is al- 
w’ays infinitely better than the other. I tremble to think 


ONCE AGAIN 199 

of the sort of woman Henry would marry if he took unto 
himself a wife.” 

“Have no fear, my dear,” returned Bertram, gayly. 
“Henry’s wife is not yet born. Marriage under some cir- 
cumstances is a very desirable estate, but, though I 
recommend it to my friends, I have never yet desired it 
for myself. Perfect liberty, absolute freedom, is my idea 
of well-being; and even the most elastic fetters would seem 
bonds to me.” 

“It is very cruel of you to say that to Mia and me,” 
smiled Eeine. “Devoted as we are to each other, I am 
sure we are quite capable of quarreling a Voutrance if you 
showed any disposition to throw the handkerchief to either 
of us.” 

“Quite!” echoed Mr. Herbert. “Now, after this con- 
fession, tell us about Cowes.” 

“ What shall I tell you? One Cowes fortnight is pre- 
cisely like another, except for any difference the weather 
may make. Nine people out of ten are profoundly bored 
or extremely uncomfortable, cooped up in yacht-cabins or 
fifth-rate lodgings. Men dawdling about and yawning, 
women who hate and fear the sea running horrible risks of 
mol de mer for the sake of being en evidence — all their eager 
eyes converging to the lode-star of royalty, all dying to be 
distinguished by a word of notice, or, mingled bliss and 
anguish, an invitation on board the royal yacht. But only 
fancy the horror of succumbing to nausea under august 
eyes. There were the usual number of pretty women and 
wonderful toilets in the club gardens and at the dances; 
the usual practical jokes at the expense of a certain lady ; 
the usual flirtations ; the usual scandals; the usual every- 
thing.” 

“ And what was the latest scandal?” inquired Mrs. Her- 
bert. 

“The most engrossing topic of conversation was Lady 
Blanche’s engagement to young L. It is a regular case of 
Titania and Bottom. He appears to be an irreclaimable 
lout, without birth, breeding, or money, a confirmed 
drunkard, I fear, and she is the sweetest little creature 
possible and absolutely infatuated about him. He treats’ 
her in the most cavalier manner, and she hangs upon his 
every word and look with an adoring expression that is 
positively painful to see. I am afraid that her mother, 
who is sadly weak, will not be able to prevent her from 
marrying him.” 

“It is shocking!” observed Mrs. Herbert. “I really 
feel thankful that I have no children. They are almost 
certain to choose the very people to fall in love with that 
one most objects to, and the instant you thwart them they 


200 


ONCE AGAIN. 


forget all your devotion, and regard you simply as an 
enemy to be detested and circumvented, possibly to be 
treated with coldness and disdain.” 

‘‘That is very true,” assented Eeine, with a sigh, think- 
ing of Dulcie and Mrs. Vernon. 

“ I do not know,” remarked Bertram, cheerfully, “ that 
we have any right to expect our children to see with our 
eyes and judge with our minds. You and I,” turning to 
Mrs. Herberl; (“ we cannot include Eeine as a contempo- 
rary), know how very diiferently we think and feel on 
many subjects from what we did twenty years ago. To 
be tenacious of one’s loves and one’s opinions is very nat- 
ural to the best sort of youtli; and I suppose none of us 
would very much value affection that could be diverted 
from us at the will of a third person.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose not, ’ ’ assented Mrs. Herbert. ‘ ‘ But it is very 
melancholy to see young people digging pit-falls for them- 
selves, which, if they tumble into, they will hardly ever 
get out of during the rest of their lives. However,” 
lightly, ‘‘ as we are none of us blessed with olive-branches, 
we need not make ourselves vicariously melancholy with 
such reflections. ’ ’ 

Mr. Bertram turned to Eeine. 

“ Has this charming place not inspired your muse?” he 
asked her. “ Are we not to have ‘ Verses from the Dower- 
House ’?” 

“ No; I do«pot intend to write verses from anywhere,’' 
she replied, a trifle pettishly. 

‘‘ What! never any more?” 

“No; I am disgusted at being misunderstood, and tired 
of being called improper and blasphemous and atheistic.” 

“ All great people have been misunderstood, my queen,” 
said Bertram. 

‘ ‘ Do not think I am posing for a femme incomprise. It 
is a part I particularly dislike. And indeed, ” with a proud 
gesture of her head, “I do not wish to be understood by 
the general world. What it thinks is a matter of supreme 
indifference to me. ” 

“I will tell you,” interrupted Mrs. Herbert, “why her 
pen has been idle. She has been much happier of late ; 
and I never knew Eeine inspired unless she was unhappy. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Prosperous nations have no history. ’ Eeine, happy, 
writes no poetry. Then I will not wish for more,” an- 
swered Bertram, with an affectionate glance at Mrs. Chan- 
dos. “I would rather she were happy than the most 
famous woman of her time.” 

“Happy!” echoed Eeine. “ Happy is a very big word. 
I exist, and I am not absolutely miserable. The sun 
shines. I breathe pure air. I have Mia’s society, which,” 


ONCE AGAIN, 


201 


with a smile, ‘‘is amusing when I can get her to vary the 
theme of her remarks, and now ] have you ; so that— yes, 
really to-night I am next door to^being happy ; I am con- 
tent.” 

“ Would anything make you happy?” Bertram asked. 
‘‘ Can you conceive a state of bliss?” 

‘ ‘ That is the worst of it, ” she replied ; “ I can. I imagine 
bliss so perfect that all reality must inevitably fall far short 
of it.” 

“ That is the penalty of imagination,” he returned. “ I, 
who am a poor, prosaic earth-worm, am always happy, 
and the little cares and worries of life only make a foil to 
its bright side for me. ’ ’ 

“You will have gout some day,” smiled Eeine, “ and 
then melancholy will mark you for her own. ’ ’ 

“ It is humiliating to think how men’s minds are gov- 
verned by their stomachs,” he answered, laughing — “that 
it is not to one’s heart or brain one owes ideas and impulses, 
but to the greater or less perfection of one’s powers of as- 
similating and digesting food.” 

A note was here brought to Mrs. Herbert, with an in- 
timation that a reply was awaited. 

She read it smiling. 

“ Do not look at her whilst she reads,” whispered Eeine; 
“ it is from the beloved one.” 

“ Here is a charming proposal for to-morrow,” said Mrs. 
Herbert, refolding her missive and returning it to its en- 
velope. “Sir John wishes us to drive ovi^r to B , 

which we have not yet seen. There is a delightful little 
inn where he proposes to order lunch, and he will drive 
one of us in his phaeton and the other two are to go in my 
victoria.” 

“ An excellent idea,” replied Eeine, promptly. “ Henry 
and I will go in the victoria, and that will give me the op- 
portunity of the tete-a-tete for which I am so anxious. 
You, of course, Mia, will go with Sir John.” 

Mrs. Herbert smiled in reply. 

“Do you approve the project?” she inquired of Bertram. 

“ With all my heart,” he responded, cordially. 

So the invitation was accepted, and Sir John bidden to 
come to the dower-house with his phaeton at noon on the 
following day. 

Mrs; Chandos rallied her friend upon the imprudence of 
showing herself in public with Sir John. However, by 
some strange means for which the author cannot account, 
the next day it was Eeine who occupied the seat by Sir 
John, whilst Mrs. Herbert and Bertram bowled away in 
the victoria. 

It was a heavenly day, with a balmy west wind temper- 


202 


ONCE AGAIN. 


ing the sun’s ardor. Jack looked radiantly happy, and 
Eeine, who was extremely fond of horses, felt a certain 
amount of pleasure in sitting behind the handsome, spir- 
ited chestnuts she had so often admired. But scarcely had 
they set out upon their journey when an incident occurred 
which went very near to spoiling their day’s pleasure. 
About a mile from the dower-house they passed a group of 
cottages. Some twenty yards further on a couple of 
children were playing on the bank by the road-side. Just 
as the phaeton came up to them, the imps, as is the delight 
of mischievous children, ran across the road under the 
horses’ noses. Jack pulled them up on their haunches: 
Eeine uttered a low cry ; there was a yell, and one of the 
children lay in the road, with its head one inch from the 
front wheel. If the near horse had not shied, the head 
would have been under it. There was an awful moment 
whilst the servant jumped out and Jack was pacifying the 
plunging horses, whose every movement endangered the 
child ; then, as the man dragged it away and took it up in 
his arms, Jack cried, with a white face : 

“ Good God! William, is he killed?” 

A lusty yell gave an instant and satisfactory answer 
to his question. 

“ Bring him here and put him on my lap,” cried Eeine, 
trembling ; and the man reluctantly obeyed, having regard 
to the lady’s nice dress and the soiled and dusty condition 
of the urchin. 

‘‘He’s notfchurt, Sir John, the young rascal!” said the 
indignant groom. “Serve him right if he was. He’s 
been up to it afore, and all but got Bob thrown the other 
day on Black Bess.” 

Jack and Eeine were carefully examining the screaming 
child, but only found a slight cut on his head, where a 
stone had struck him as he fell. 

“There, my little lad, don’t cry,” said Jack,, kindly. 
“Look at this!” And he produced a half-crown from his 
pocket, at which the tears promptly ceased to flow and the 
yells subsided. 

“Go to their heads, William.’’ The horses were quiet 
now. “Do you mind holding the reins a moment?^’ to 
Mrs. Chandos; and Jack got out, lifted the child down, 
and, taking him by the hand, led him toward the cottage. 

“He does not seem hurt, ” remarked Eeine to the groom. 

“No, ma’am, not he,” returned William, 'unfeelingly. 
“ I expect the horse’s shoulder just ketched him and spun 
him around. They’re always up to it, the young villains; 
and if he had been run over, it would just have bin a 
warnin’ to the others.” 

Meantime, a woman came running out of the cottage, 


ONCE AGAIN, 


SOB 

having been apprised by the other urchin, who had swiftly 
taken to his heels, of the catastrophe, and, seeing that her 
treasure was not injured, she proceeded to abuse and 
threaten him volubly, alternately offering deep apologies 
and courtesies to the young squire. 

“There, Mrs. Wilson, don’t scold him this time!” said 
Jack, good-naturedly. “He’s been well frightened, and I 
don’t suppose he will do it again.” 

“He want a good hidin’, he do, Sir John; and that’s 
what his father ’ll gi ’un when he come home.” 

“No, no, not this time! You must promise me not to 
say anything more this time ; but if it happens again, why, 
then he’s to have a good thrashing. Do you hear that, my 
little man? Now, don’t forget! Promise me you’ll never 
do it again. ’ ’ 

And the blubbering urchin was understood to give an un- 
dertaking to refrain from risking life and limb in future. 

Strange what great effects small incidents cause in the 
human mind! Jack’s good nature and tenderness to the 
child niade Eeine feel better disposed toward him than 
she had ever been up to this moment, and in her heart she 
compared him very favorably with two other men whom 
she had known intimately — her husband and her father — 
who, under similar circumstances, would have been very 
far from showing or feeling any pity or softness toward 
the mischievous cub. 

She was more charming to him than she had ever been 
— a fact of which Jack was delightedly conscious, although 
he did not guess the cause. Had he done so, he would have 
seriously contemplated endowing the good-for-nothing 
urchin with a ten- pound note in addition to the half-crown. 
How short the eight miles seemed! the milestones had 
surely been moved nearer together; how exhilarating was 
the west wind! — how glorious the sunshine !-— how lovely 
the clouds floating like swans on the bosom of an azure 
lake ! Surely there was never such a congenial parti carve 
as the one which lunched in the pretty, old-fashioned par- 
lor of the Golden Bull, or loitered afterward in the streets 
of the quaint old town. 

Jack had something on his mind that he was anxious to 
say to Eeine. It was not on his own account, but on thac 
of Dulcie, for whom he felt unfeignedly sorry. He had de- 
layed broaching the subject until the return journey, for, 
good fellow that he was, he was dreadfully diffident about 
interfering in matters which did not concern him, and hor- 
ribly afraid of seeming to take a liberty. 

About half-way home he suddenly lapsed into silence, 
seemed ratlier distrait, and was much occupied with re- 


204 


ONCE AGAIN. 


moving flies real and imaginary from the sleek sides of his 
chestnuts. At last he broke out suddenly : 

“ I should so like to say something to you, Mrs. Chandos, 
only — only I should be so awfully distressed if you were to 
think I was taking a liberty.” 

E(dne wondered a little what this preamble might mean, 
but he hastened on, lest she should be led into anj^ mis- 
taken idea of his intention. 

“It is about your cousin, Miss Vernon. Of course I 
don’t know — it may be only my imagination; but I can’t 
help fancying that she is not very happy, poor little 
girl!” 

And here he glanced diffidently round at Reine, to 
observe whether his remark was taken in good part. She 
looked thoughtful, for the knowledge of Dulcie’s secret 
oppressed her. 

“No,” she said, hesitatingly, “I fear she is not quite 
happy. She is a good deal changed of late. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think,” Jack hurried on, “that she and her 
mother quite hit it off, if you’ll excuse my saying so. It 
seems to me as if she wanted a friend to give her a little 
advice — one she wouldn’t be afraid of, and that she could 
confide in.” 

And Jack’s eyes plainly intimated that Reine was the 
person of whom he was thinking. 

In his heart he believed that Dulcie was fretting after 
Alwyne. Reine was under the impression that her mar- 
riage and the dislike she had conceived for her husband 
caused her misery. Jack did not like to hint his sus- 
picions, and Reine could not tell him what she knew. 

“I am very fond of Dulcie,” she said, presently. “I 
would gladly do anything I could to make her happier ; 
but I am very much afraid my power falls far short of my 
will.” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Jack, eagerly. “If you would talk to 
her— if you would persuade her that it’s no use crying 
about spilt milk, that what’s done can’t be undone, and 
that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of 
it.” 

Jack’s words were homely, but they afforded his listener 
a very clear exposition of his views. She saw that he at- 
tributed Dulcie’s sadness to regret for his cousin. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It was some little time before Reine answered Jack’s 
eager speech. No doubt he knew something of which she 
was ignorant, something that had reference to the mysteri- 
ous disappearance of the three young people at the hall that 


ONCE AGAIN 


205 


evening, but he would not betray Dulcie, and she had not 
the smallest desire to make him do so. 

“It beats me,” Jack pursued, seeing that she did not 
reply to him, “ why, if she liked Alwyne and he was so in 
love with her, Mrs. Vernon did not let them marry each 
other.” 

“My aunt may have had good reasons for objecting,” 
answered Reine, very much at a loss what to say. 

“Oh, of course we know Alwyne has been rather 
spoiled,” returned Jack, “and I can quite understand a 
mother being doubtful about his making a good husband ; 
still, he really isn’t a bad chap at heart, and with a nice 
amiable girl, who would give in to him, I think he would 
turn out all right. Still,” with a troubled sigh, “it’s no 
use going back to that now. ’ ’ 

Reine knew that it was idle to discuss a subject on which 
they were at cross-purposes ; so she said : 

“I will come up to-morrow and have a little talk with 
Dulcie, and try if I can be of any use to her.” 

“Do! do!” cried Jack. “That will be awfully good of 
you!” 

He spoke as though it were his cousin, not Reine’s, for 
whom he was pleading, and his tone expressed supreme 
confidence in the success of her mission. 

As they passed the scene of the morning’s adventure, 
Jack pulled up at the cottage to inquire whether any fur- 
ther mjury to the boy had been discovered, and was 
greatly reassured when he came out, holding on to his 
mother’s apron, abashed in spirits by the jobation he had 
received from his parent, but not a pin the worse other- 
wise. 

Mrs. Chandos related the incident at dinner. 

“I supfiose,” she said to Bertram, “that there will be no 
holding Mia after this, but I am bound to admit that her 
paragon showed to advantage to-day.” 

“Of course he did, dear boy,” replied Mrs. Herbert, 
secretly delighted at Reine’s praise; “he always does what 
is kind and nice. ” 

“ Have I not admitted it?” said Reine.. “You must not 
expect me to prostrate myself and worship the young man 
because he was good-tempered under rather trying circum- 
stances. ’ ’ 

“The young monkey deserved a whipping!” remarked 
Bertram. ‘ ‘ There is" nothing so dangerous. The best 
horse I ever had was thrown down and broke his knees 
by being violently pulled up to save the neck of an imp 
of a child who rushed out in front of him. I remember 
that I swore pretty freely, and felt very little compassion 
for the child, on the occasion.” 


206 


ONCE AGAIN 


“All’s well that ends well,” said Reine. “We have 
really had a charming day, and for once an excursion has 
not bored me. And you, Henry?” 

“ I shall mark this day with a white stone,” he answered, 
smiling. 

The next morning Reine walked up to the hall. They 
were to dine there in the evening, but she knew that she 
would have no oj^portunity of speaking privately to Dulcie 
then. First she sought her aunt, told her of her intention, 
and asked permission to disclose to Dulcie that she was 
aware of her secret. 

Mrs. Vernon was in a state of intense irritation. 

“It is impossible, ” she exclaimed, “that I can go on 
being worried in this way. Dulcie is absolutely devoid 
of self-respect. She goes about looking wretched. I am 
certain every one in the house knows that she is pining 
after that odious young Temple. I have not the least 
doubt that some disgraceful scene occurred the other night 
when those three were absent from the drawing-room, 
which probably every one except myself is aware of. I 
will not ask any questions, for fear of being driven to ex- 
asperation. I assure you, Reine, that I would gladly give 
up half my income if I could send her out to join that 
wretched young man in India. If he had not been desti- 
tute of every spark of manly feeling, he would have in- 
sisted on taking her. As to going on in the way we are 
doing now, it is impossible. I should soon be in a mad- 
house. The constant strain of governing my feelings and 
seeming to smile and observe nothing, is more than human 
flesh and blood can endure. ’ ’ 

“Poor auntie,” said Reine, soothingly, “ it is indeed very 
trying for you. Let me speak to Dulcie and !^ear what 
she says. I cannot help pitying her too.” 

“Pitying her!” cried Mrs. Vernon, with exasperation. 
“ What is there to pity? Her own folly and her unpardon- 
able duplicity have brought all this upon her. Have I not 
watched over her from a child? Has any girl had more 
care or kindness bestowed upon her? and yet at the very 
flrst opportunity she forgets affection, duty, everything, 
and overwhelms me with disgrace and misery.” 

“ It is a terrible grief for you, ” Reine replied* sympathet- 
ically. “We must try and see some way out of this dread- 
ful dilemma. Let me go to her now and hear what she 
has to say. ’ ’ 

So Mrs. Chandos proceeded to her cousin’s chamber, and 
was fortunate enough to find her there. 

“My dear child!” she said, kissing her affectionately, 
“ this is a terrible state of things. I want to talk to you* 
about it; you know you may trust me, do you not?” 


ONCE AGAIN 


207 


She felt that with her cousin the only way was to attack 
the subject boldly, for the girl always took refuge in fence 
and subterfuge when it was possible. 

Dulcie shot a frightened glance at her, but did not an- 
swer. 

Eeine sat down and took her hand. 

“ My dear,” she said, softly, “ what is to become of your 
future? You are very unhappy; your poor mother is al- 
most distracted about you; you cannot go on in the way 
you are doing now.” 

“Mamma is heartless and cruel,” cried Dulcie, bursting 
into tears. “ I only wish I could get away from her.” 

“ Then, my dear child, why did you not get away when 
you had the opportunity? I will tell you at once that I 
know about your marriage ; then there need be no disguise 
between us.” 

Dulcie hid her face and continued to weep. The most 
trying person of all to deal with is the one who declines to 
enter into a discussion, but leaves you to have all the con- 
versation to yourself.” 

Reine was not daunted; knowing her cousin’s peculiar 
disposition, she continued to hold one of her hands, and 
went on speaking very gently : 

“ You know, dear child, you must have been very much 
attached to Mr. Trevor before you could agree to such a 
serious step as a clandestine marriage with him ; and if, 
poor fellow, he has done nothing since to forfeit your re- 
gard, as indeed he has had no opportunity of doing, it is 
unreasonable that you should take a dislike to him without 
cause.” 

Dulcie ansv/ered not a word. 

“Surely,” Reine continued, after giving her an opportu- 
nity to speak, of which she did not avail herself, “ surely if 
you loved him ten months ago you might get to care for 
him again ; he is quite devoted to you ; and would it not be 
better to be with him than to lead this life, which is most 
distressing both to yourself and to your mother?” 

At last Dulcie opened her lips. 

“I wish I was dead !” she said, bitterly. 

“ But, my dear, there is no chance of your dying. What 
you have to do is to try and make the best of your life. 
You cannot get away from the fact that you are*^ married 
to Mr. Trevor. It is your duty to be with him; and why 
should you not be happy, and make liim happy instead of 
making yourelf and him miserable? And you know, 
Dulcie, it is hopeless, as well as Avrong, to allow yourself to 
dwell on the thought of any other man.” 

“ I do not,” cried Dulcie, with more energy than she iuid 
yet shown. 


20B 


ONCE AGAIN 


'‘I am afraid/’ said Heine, softly, “ that you have given 
the impression that you are not quite indifferent to Mr. 
Temple.” 

Dulcie averted her eyes, but said nothing. 

“Think,” pleaded Heine, “ how painful all this must be 
for your poor mother ! You should not forget, dear, how de- 
voted she has been to you all her life. Try, for a moment, 
to put yourself in her place. Think what she must have 
felt when she discovered your marriage — what a blow to 
all her hopes — how bitter to know that her only child could 
so deceive her?” 

Dulcie listened in moody silence ; she would neither re- 
ply nor defend herself. 

“ Think,” pursued Heine, after a moment’s pause, “ what 
an embarrassing position it is for her to take about an ap- 
parently eligible daughter who attracts attention and ad- 
miration, and to feel that she is aiding a deception. Think 
of her annoyance last winter when Mr. Temple persisted 
in regarding her as the willful destroyer of his hopes. 
Think of her vexation every time a fresh suitor appears. 
There is Mr. Lister now making himself unhappy about 
you. If he knew the truth he would not have thought of 
you for a moment. Hemember that your mother is a 
woman with a very strong sense of honor, and all this dis- 
simulation is extremely painful and annoying to her.” 

Still no answer. Heine began to get a little impatient, 
but struggled to conceal it, and spoke more kindly still. 

“ Dear Dulcie, you know this state of things cannot go 
on; you have no right to make your mother miserable.” 

Dulcie burst out at last : 

‘ ‘ All I want is to get away from her. Why cannot I live 
with Anna Leslie? I would rather be a governess than go 
on living with mamma.” 

“You forget how people talk, ’ ’ answered Heine. ‘ ‘ What 
would they say if you, the only child of a devoted mother, 
left her house and went to live elsewhere?” 

“Mamma hates me,” said Dulcie; “I know she does. 
And it is only because I have disnppoiiited her ambition. 
She was always dinning it into my ears that a girl ought 
to make a good marriage. But for that I dare say I 
should never have been tempted to do what I did. It was 
all her fault. ” ^ 

“No,” replied Heine, firmly, “it was not your mother's 
fault. It is quite natural that she should wish you to 
marry well.” 

“She would not let me see Noel. She made me write 
and tell him that I was not to see him again. ’ ’ 

“ And now, ” Heine could not resist saying, “it is you 
who v/ill not see him. Perhaps your mother v/as not so 


OXCE AGAIN, 209 

wrong in not attributing any great importance to your 
fancy for him. ’ ’ 

Dulcie turned away pettishly. 

“ Oh, of course if you take mamma’s part it is no good 
my saying anything more. Every one is against me.” 
And she subsided into tears again. 

There was no more to be said after this. Eeine tried in 
vain to pacify her, and soon after took her leave, with the 
unpleasant consciousness of having utterly failed in her 
mission. Jack was waiting to escort her home. 

“Have you seen Miss Vernon?” he asked, eagerly, as 
they walked together down the drive. 

“Yes,” said Eeine, assuming a light-hearted air that she 
was far from feeling. “We have had a little talk together. 
I think her depression is caused by some little worry of 
which I cannot tell you, but whicli is not connected with 
the cause you supposed ” 

Jack felt a shade disappointed. He did not think that 
Mrs. Chandos was trying to throw dust in his eyes, but 
he did think that her cousin had deceived her, for he 
could not forget the scene in the garden and Lister’s ac- 
count of what he had witnessed. But he had far too much 
gentlemanlike feeling to insist, and, seeing that Mrs. 
Chandos showed no disposition to confide in him, he said, 
cheerily : 

‘ ‘ I hope it will be all right, and that she will soon get 
over her worries. It is wonderful how small things can 
vex one sometimes. ’ ’ 

Eeine thoroughly appreciated his delicacy of feeling in 
seeming to fall in with her views, and they chatted away 
amicably together as they pursued their way to the dower- 
house. She was fast coming round to the good opinion of 
him which she affected to deride in her friend, and con- 
trasted him constantly in her mind with those other two 
men at whose hands she had suffered so much — her father 
selfish, exacting, irritable, her husband violent and coarse. 
Both these had had their home manner and their company 
manner, like a good many more of their sex — could be^.de- 
lightful in society and keep their ill-temper for home con- 
sumption ; but Sir John was always the same— kind, cheery, 
anxious for the comfort of those about him, and thoroughly 
unselfish. He was as courteous to his mother and sister as 
to every other lady, and betrayed none of the rude famil- 
iarity, the oblivion of small politeness, with which some 
sons and brothers distinguish between the wcmen who be- 
long to them and those who are not of their kin. That 
evening the party from the dower-house dined at the Hall, 
and quite accidentally some wrong impressions were given 
to several of the company 


210 


ONCE AGAIN 


It happened that Lilah had one of her headaches and 
was not well enough to appear at dinner. Eeine, who 
felt particularly sorry for the poor little invalid, and 
'svhose sympathetic nature made her ever anxious to soothe 
and relieve suffering, asked permission to go and see 
her. 

“I have been thought,” she said to Mrs. Chester, '‘to 
have some -mesmeric power in my fingers, and once or 
twice I have been successful in alleviating pain.” 

Mrs. Chester hesitated, divided between the desire not to 
seem unappreciative of her guest’s kindness and the fear 
that Lilah might decline with scant graciousness to receive 
a comparative stranger. She thanked Reine cordially first, 
and then said, with some diffidence : 

‘ ‘ Poor, dear Lilah is a little inclined to be fretful in her 
suffering. I hope you will not be vexed if she ” 

Here Mrs. Chester paused. 

“ I will come away at once,” interposed Reine, “if my 
presence seems unwelcome to her.” 

Mrs. Chester led the way to Lilah’s pretty sitting-room, 
which it was her great pleasure to adorn and decorate. It 
was full of pretty things, contributed, for the most part, by 
her mother and brother. 

She was lying on a couch, looking wan and weary, her 
brows contracted by suffering, and an expression of queru- 
lous discontent upon her poor little white face. She was 
not asleep, and, as the door opened softly, she did not un- 
close her eyes, but gave herself a pettish twist expressive 
of resentment at the intrusion, although she was wont to 
be extremely indignant if she fancied herself forgotten 
or neglected. She thought it was her mother and Grace, 
and vouchsafed them no notice. Reine stole softly to the 
back of the couch and laid her fingers gently on the hot 
brow. 

“ Who is that?” cried Lilah, opening her eyes wide in an 
instant. Reine did not remove her hand. Mrs. Chester 
looked a little frightened. She feared Lilah was going to 
be ungracious. 

“ It is I, ” whispered Reine, softly. 

Lilah did not shake off the touch, as her mother ex- 
pected, but merely sighed and said: 

“ Ah, I knew it was different from any one I was used to.” 
Then, after a pause, ‘‘ Thank you; I like it.” 

Reine continued to pass her slim fingers lightly to and 
fro on, not over, the brow and head of the little sufferer, 
and gradually the weary, discontented expression died out 
of Lilah's face, to the unspeakable delight and gratitude of 
the mother. When Reine saw that her charm was work- 
ing, Aie whispered to Mrs. Chester: 


ONCE AGAIN 


211 


“Will you not go back to the drawing-room and leave 
me here?’ ’ 

“I am so afraid of your tiring yourself,” replied Mrs. 
Chester, with divided feelings of gratitude and politeness. 

“I can go on for hours without getting tired,” said 
Heine. “You see it is no effort: I scarcely move my 
arm.” 

“Yes, mother, go,” interrupted Lilah. “And don’t let 
any one come in. I think I shall go to sleep.” 

Mrs. Chester prepared to obey. 

‘ ‘ Do not send any one until I ring or go down to the 
drawing-room,” urged Heine; and Mrs. Chester, with 
whispered thanks, retired on tiptoe. 

In twenty minutes, Lilah was fast asleep ; but still Heine 
remained at the head of the couch, almost imperceptibly 
moving her fingers to and fro. Nothing in the world gave 
her so much pleasure as to soothe pain : it was long since 
she had spent so pleasant an evening as this, in the dark- 
ened chamber, with Lilah sleeping serenely under her 
touch. 

Meantime, Mrs. Chester was on tenter-hooks in the 
drawing-room lest Mrs. Chandos should be tiring herself, 
and it required the strongest assurances from Mrs. Herbert 
that if there was one occupation more delightful to her 
friend than another, it was the one in which she was at 
present engaged. As for Jack, his heart was suffused with 
delight and tenderness at the thought of this divine trait 
of goodness in his idol; would not his mother soon come 
round to his way of thinking when it was proved to her 
what an angel Mrs. Chandos was? He was seated next 
Dulcie, playing a round game, and the joy that was in his 
heart smiled in his face, and he looked so tenderly at and 
spoke so softly to her that three of the party present gave 
him credit for entertaining feelings for Dulcie which were 
really bestowed on Heine. A pang shot through poor 
Grracie’s jealous heart, Henry Bertram said to himself 
that for once Mrs. Herbert’s penetration had been at fault, 
and Mrs. Chester hugged herself with a delighted belief 
that he was at last awaking to the attractions of this dear 
girl. Her affection for Dulcie had never wavered ; she had 
always thought of her as a suitable and charming wife for 
her dear son. As time wore on and Mrs. Chandos did not 
make her appearance, Mrs. Chester, after fidgeting about 
a good deal, went up again to Lilah’ s room, in spite of her 
prohibition. 

Gentle as was her entrance, Lilah unclosed her eyes, 
but not peevishly or fretfully this time. Her face tvore a 
smile. 


212 


ONCE AGAIN 


‘‘ Oh, I have- had such a beautiful sleep!” she said, and, 
raising herself on her elbow, she turned to look at Reine. 

” How kind you are ! my headache is quite gone. Thank 
you so much 1 Will you kiss me?” 

Reine kissed her very kindly. 

” I am so glad, my dear, to have done you good. When 
your head aches again, you must send for me.” 

Mrs. Chester could scarcely find words in which to ex- 
press her gratitude, she was "so happy about both her chil- 
dren to-night, and they were the one thought and care of 
her existence. 

Lilah made Reine promise that she would come very soon 
again to see her, and kissed her once more at parting — a 
very unusual show of affection on the part of the little in- 
valid. 

The card -party had broken up when Reine entered the 
drawing-room, and Mrs. Herbert’s carriage was just being 
announced. 

” It is such a glorious night !” said Reine. “ Mia, should 
you mind if I were to walk home with Henry?” 

“Really, my dear, I hardly know,” laughed Mrs. Her- 
bert. “ It is moonlight, and you are so romantic.” 

“ Don’t you think Henry’s prosaicness will counterbal- 
ance my romance?” asked Reine, gayly. 

“Perhaps,” assented her friend. “ Well, I suppose I 
must give my consent.” 

As Jack was putting Mrs. Ghandos’ cloak round her, he 
whispered, with enthusiasm; 

“ How good you havo been to pooy little Lilah 1 How can 
we thank you enough?” 

All his admiration came streaming through his blue eyes, 
and Reine v/ould, indeed, have been blind had she failed to 
observe it. The clasp in which he held her hand told 
even more tales. 

Mrs. Ghandos was not altogether displeased. She had 
begun to feel a very sincere liking for the kind-hearted, 
amiable young fellow. 

Jack stood on the steps, looking longingly and rather 
sadly after the retreating figures of Bertram and Reine. 
He would have given vrorlds to have walked back with 
them, but was deterred from offering his company by the 
fear of seeming intrusive. He was not jealous of Ber- 
tram now, and thought him the best fellow in the world, 
but in his honest, diffident heart he could not help feeling 
a painful consciousness of his own inferiority to the clever 
man of the world, and thinking how very much more con- 
genial Bertram’s companionship must be to Mrs. Ghandos 
than his own. 


ONCE AGAIN 


2m 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

Lilah could talk of nothing but Mrs. Chandos and her 
marvelous mesmeric powers. She made the various mem- 
bers of the household try their hands at mesmerizing her, 
but dismissed them all with impatient contempt. Johnnie, 
she declared, had the nearest approach to the mesmeric 
touch, but he was leagues away from Mrs. Chandos. We 
may imagine how delighted he was at this compliment, and 
with what pleasure he sat and listened to Lilah’s praises of 
his dear lady. He did not say very much in response ; the 
fact was, he was afraid of saying too much. 

Two or three days later Mrs. Chandos again paid a visit 
to Lilah in her boudoir, by particular request of the young 
lady — not to exercise the office of healing medium on this 
occasion, but to have what Lilah called a nice talk. 

“ I have a great favor to ask you,” said the girl, v/hen 
Eeine had been with her a few minutes— “a favor. 

Dear Mrs. Chandos, will you promise to grant it?” 

“I think I may promise,” smiled Eeine. “ I do not 
suppose you would ask anything very impossible of me. ’ ’ 

Lilah lowered her voice, and said, coaxingly : 

“ I want to read your poetry. Will you lend it to me?” 

Eeine hesitated. She felt that she could not comply with 
this request, and for the first time the thought struck her 
unpleasantly that she would not like this young girl to 
read what she had written. She had been indignant with 
critics who had found fault with the moral tone of her 
verses; she had declared that it was absurd to suppose 
that authors and poets were to.be trammeled in their writ- 
ings by the consideration whether what they wrote was 
suited to schoolgirls; but at this moment it smote her 
sharply to think that her poetry was not what she would 
care to put into Lilah’s hands. 

Lilah saw her hesitation, and said quickly : 

“ You are thinking that mamma would not like it. But 
mamma is not to know. She has such old-fashioned ideas, 
and thinks everything dreadful. But,” confidentially, “I 
have read heaps" of things she does not know of. I found 
a volume of Swinburne’s poems once in a hotel — some one 
had left it behind — and I took it to bed with me and read 
every word. Oh, it was lovely ; but I am quite sure yours 
could not be half so improper as those, could they?” 

“My dear,” said Eeine, gravely, without replying to the 
latter part of Lilah’s remarks, “I could not think of lend- 
ing you my poems if your mother disapproves of them. 
But how do you know that she does? Has she read 


214 


ONCE AGAIN, 


“Oh, yes,” replied Lilah. “ She got them at Nice, and 
was in an awful state of mind about them. I don’t mind 
telling you, because it will make you laugh. She was in 
the greatest fright that Johnnie was going to fall in love 
with you, and she thought you did not believe in anything 
and would take him headlong to perdition, and they had 
an awful scene about it. You know I would not tell you 
this, only I thought it would amuse you, because, of course, 
though we think there is no one like our dear, darling 
Johnnie, you would not look at him, because he is not 
clever like you.” 

One might have imagined that, as Lilah was a shrewd 
little person, she would have been aware that her words 
could not inspire any very pleasurable emotion in the 
breast of her hearer ; "but there was a curious little twist 
in her nature that made it agreeable to her to shoot occa- 
sional arrows at friends as well as foes. 

E-eine experienced one of the most disagreeable sensa- 
tions she had ever known in her life. To feel that she was 
looked upon in such a light by so excellent, if narrow- 
minded, a woman as Mrs. Chester, was mortifying to her 
in the extreme, conscious as she was of her own purity 
and rectitude of intention and principle. To be regarded 
in the light in which it was evident Mrs. Chester regarded 
her was a bitter blow both to her vanity and her heart. 
It cost her one of the greatest efforts she had ever made 
in her life to smile and assume a tolerably indifferent tone 
as she said : 

“I am very sorry, my dear, but, under the circum- 
stances, I cannot possibly do what you ask. I would on 
no account lend you any book without your mother’s sanc- 
tion, far less one of which you tell me she disapproves so 
strongly.” 

Lilah had a suspicion that she had been indiscreet, and 
tried to make amends. 

“ I hope you are not vexed,” she said. “I ought not to 
have said anything about it. But mamma is so dreadfully 
religious and so strict in her ideas that she thinks every 
one who does not believe the Bible right through from be- 
ginning to end must be lost. I have often,” looking a lit- 
tle frightened at her own words, “thought there were 
things in it which were unnatural and contradicted each 
other, and, oh ! I should so like to talk about it to some one 
clever who understands these things. Life is so unfair and 
hard on some people : I don’t see how one can be expected 
to think it is all right, and to be thankful for one’s misery. ’ ’ 

“My dear child,” said Reine, compassionately, “if you 
do not want to be very unhappy, do not encourage doubts 
or begin to ask questions. Believe what you have believed 


ONCE AGAIN. 


215 


and been taught in your childhood, or you will prepare a 
great deal of misery for yourself. We poor mortals can- 
not discover the truth for ourselves, and we are far more 
likely to be happy if we submit our judgment, even a little 
against the grain sometimes, than if we insist on knowing, 
or rather trying to know, the why and wherefore of every- 
thing. We never shall know it; no one has ever known it ; 
and a hundred clever minds will evolve a hundred different 
theories from a lifetime of research. Few women can 
swim out boldly into the sea of speculation : most of us only 
succeed in wetting our feet with the little waves on the 
shore and making ourselves thoroughly uncomfortable. ’ ' 

“ When did you first begin to have doubts?” asked Lilah, 
eagerly ; but Mrs. Chandos refused altogether to continue 
the discussion. She was extremely glad when, a few 
minutes later, Mrs. Herbert came into the room with 
Grace, and soon afterward they took their leave. During 
the remainder of the afternoon, and at dinner, Heine was 
silent and distraite; truth to tell, Lilah’ s arrow was rank' 
ling terribly in her mind. Mrs, Herbert saw that some- 
thing had vexed her friend, but made no remark, hoping 
that Heine would tell her what was passing in her mind . 
When they were sitting together in the veranda, and Heine 
still made no sign, she said : 

‘ ‘ It is not kind of you, my love, to have secrets from me. 
What has vexed you?” 

Heine did not answer for a moment ; then she said, with 
a ruffled gesture : 

“Yes, I am vexed — horribly vexed. It is, I dare say, a 
very slight and unimportant matter ; perhaps it is only my 
vanity that is hurt, but it is hurt, and I cannot help feeling 
annoyed and disgusted.” Then, with a slight increase of 
color in her cheek, she repeated to her friend what Lilah 
had said. 

Mrs. Herbert was extremely indignant. 

“I never liked that girl,” she said. “She is a spiteful 
little cat, and always has her claws out ready to scratch.” 

“ Poor little thing,” said Heine, kindly. “ I do not for a 
moment suppose she meant to hurt me. ’ ’ 

“Nonsense!” returned Mrs. Herbert. “ She is anything 
but stupid, and it is only very stupid people who hurt the 
feelings of others without being a ware of it. I have not 
the smallest doubt that jealousy prompted her in what she 
said.” 

‘ ‘ Indeed, dear Mia, I think you are too hard on her. It 
was a little want of tact, perhaps, but nothing more. I 
really cannot help laughing,” but she looked more angry 
than amused, ‘ ‘ at the idea of that excellent woman being 
alarmed lest her son should be entrapped by such a danger- 


ONCE AGAIN 


ous creature as myself. It is something new to me to be 
looked upon as a sort of Scarlet Lady. ’ ’ 

And Reine gave an abrupt, contemptuous little laugh, 
guite unsuggestive of mirth. She was working herself up 
into a state of anger and felt the want of a victim. Her 
strong sense of justice passed into abeyance for the time. 

“I beg, Mia, that you will not invite Sir John here again 
whilst I remain. You see, you little know what daggers 
you have been planting in the breast of his worthy mother. 
Fancy me in the role of seducer and corrupter of an inno- 
cent young country squire.” 

By this time she was very angry, and Mrs. Herbert had 
a melancholy presentiment that all her little ingenious 
schemes had been overthrown by the odious sister of her 
favorite. She, too, felt the want of a victim, and made 
Lilah hers. She resolved then and there to give Sir John 
a hint of the mischief which Lilah had worked. 

‘ ‘ Do not talk such nonsense, my dear, ’ ' she said, with 
some sharpness. “The girl exaggerated: in fact, I dare 
say she invented the whole story. Nothing, I am sure, 
could be more cordial than the manner in which Mrs. 
Chester spoke to me of you and your kindness to Lilah.” 

Reine did not answer for some time: then she said, 
looking away into the distance and speaking in a thought- 
ful voice : 

“After all, perhaps it was a mistake to have published 
those poems. I dare say they have done me a great deal 
of harm and given people very wrong ideas about me. 
Imagine,” with a smile which had more bitter than sweet 
in it, “a very religious elderly woman, with all the cor- 
rect old-fashioned opinions, sitting down in cold blood to 
pronounce judgment upon my poor ‘Verses from the 
South, ’ written at fever- heat of passionate misery, the out- 
come of a vivid imagination worked up to its highest 
pitch! No! I see it now. The folly was not, perhaps, in 
writing them, because it gave me a kind of relief and hap- 
piness, but in sending them out to the world. Mia, you are 
a sensible woman — why did you, not advise me against pub- 
lishing them?” 

“Why should I have done so?” retorted Mrs. Herbert. 
“ They are charming and full of genius, and they have 
given you fame.” 

“ Fame worth having!” exclaimed Reine, bitterly. “A 
handle to every ill-natured person to accuse me of immo- 
rality and infidelity, and to make a really good woman 
look with dread and horror upon my possible influence 
over her son. No! I will do to-morrow what I have often 
thought of doing before ; I will buy up all that are to be 
bought, and make them into a bonfire. ’ ’ 


ONCE AGAIN. 217 

“You talk like a pettish child,” returned Mrs. Herbert. 
“ I hope you will do nothing of the sort.” 

But the very next day Mrs. Chandos, without saying a 
word to her friend, wrote and gave the order for the call- 
ing in of her poems. 

Mrs. Herbert did her utmost to soothe Heine’s ruffled 
plumage, but she was perfectly conscious of her want of 
success and sorely vexed about it. She was more vexed 
still to observe the change in Heine’s manner to Sir John 
when he next came to the dower-house. He, poor fellow, 
had been so exulting in her altered demeanor to him of 
late, and was stupefied when he perceived this lapse into 
a colder and more indifferent manner than she had ever 
shown him before. ' 

What have I done?” he cried, in despair, the moment 
he was left alone with Mrs. Herbert. “How is it possible 
that I can have offended Mrs. Chandos?” 

Mrs. Herbert, as she had resolved, told him what Lilah 
had said to Heine. She really hoped that he would give 
the little mischief-maker a severe lecture on her indiscre- 
tion and malice. 

Poor Jack sat stupefied with misery and indignation. To 
think that Mrs. Chandos, whom he placed on so exalted a 
pedestal, should have been wounded and insulted by a 
member of his family ; that she at whose feet he humbly 
worshiped, in full consciousness of his ovvii inferiority, 
should have been given to understand that she was not 
thought worthy of him ! No words could express his bitter 
mortification. Most men, under the circumstances, would 
not have rested until they had wreaked their wrath on the 
person who had injured them; but Jack knew that he could 
say nothing to Lilah in anger'; whatever she did, her weak- 
ness and suffering must shield her from any outbreak of 
wrath on his part. 

Mrs. Herbert said everything in her power to soothe and 
comfort Ifim; she was quite vexed to see with what dread- 
ful seriousjxess he took the matter, as though he then and 
there abandoned hope forever. 

“ What must she think of us!” he reiterated, as though 
Heine were a sovereign and he and his family had been 
found guilty of lese-majeste, 

“She will forget it,” said Mrs. Herbert. “Heine has a 
generous mind and is not at all vindictive.” 

But Jack was not to be comforted. It seemed impossible 
that she should ever forgive such a wanton insult. For the 
first time he shrunk from seeing her, and resolutely de- 
clined Mrs. Herbert’s invitation to stay to lunch. 

Mrs. Herbert could not forbear telling Heine of his dis- 
tress, and the latter lady said, not without warmth: 


218 


ONCE AGAIN 


‘ ‘ My dear Mia, I really think that for once you have 
been wanting in tact to tell Sir John anything about the 
matter.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps, ’ ’ retorted her friend, ‘ ‘ you are not aware how 
chilling your manner was to the poor fellow. No one 
could help remarking it, and he asked me what it meant 
the moment you left the room. ’ ’ 

“ I should be sorry,” said Eeine, with a touch of temper, 
“ if he imagined that I cared the very least what either he 
or his family think of me. ’ ’ 

“ You are not generally unjust,” rejoined Mrs. Herbert, 
“ and it is unjust to punish a man who is devoted to you 
for what a peevish, disagreeable little girl said.” 

Mrs. Herbert paused, afraid she had gone too far in 
speaking of Jack’s devotion. 

But Mrs. Chandos did not appear to have remarked the 
expression. 

Meantime, poor Jack was utterly miserable. So miser- 
able was he that the habitual cheery expression completely 
deserted his face, and it was patent to every one at the 
hall that some dreadful misfortune had befallen him. 

Lilah had a sort of frightened intuition of what had hap- 
pened, and, fearful of explanations, forbore to remark his 
dejection; but his mother was seriously concerned, and 
cast wistful glances at him from time to time. In the 
evening, no longer able to bear the suspense, she waited up 
after every one else had retired, and went to seek him in 
his own room. 

“My dearest boy,” she said, tremulously, all her moth- 
erly affection gleaming in her eyes, ‘ ‘ I fear something has 
happened to distress you. Pray, my dear,” laying a hand 
tenderly on his arm, “ if you have any trouble, do not keep 
it from me ! Who can feel for you like your mother?” 

Jack was not so much touched by this tender appeal as 
he might have been under other circumstances. He could 
not forget that it was through his mother, if indirectly, 
that this trouble had come upon him. 

He did not answer for a moment; then, as she' urged 
him, he said, in a colder tone than she had ever heard from 
his lips: 

“ It is very hard that my own family should take it upon 
themselves to insult the woman I love best in the world. ’ ’ 

The words contained a double blow to Mrs. Chester. The 
first was the intimation that he, after all, loved Mrs. Chan- 
dos ; the second, the horror of any one having been insulted 
by her or hers. 

• “Insulted!” she exclaimed, trembling with agitation. 
“ What can you possibly mean?” 

The most veracious people, know, are tempted to ex- 


ONCE AGAIN 


219 


aggerate at times, and it is possible that Mrs. Herbert un- 
consciously added a little to Heine’s recital. Jack, carried 
away by his feelings, made the most of what had been told 
him, and poor Mrs. Chester was positively appalled to 
think that Lilah should have dared to repeat to Mrs. Chan- 
dos her opinion of that lady’s poetry and her fears for her 
son. She felt thoroughly humiliated, and scarcely knew 
what to say to Jack, who stood looking at her with a dis- 
turbed and angry face. 

“Indeed!” cried the poor lady, at last. “I could not 
have believed Lilah capable of behaving in so improper and 
unfeeling a manner. I shall tell her very plainly my opin- 
ion of her conduct, and I must think what apology I can 
make to Mrs. Chandos for the insult that has been offered 
her under my roof. 

“No, mother,” said Jack, decisively. “Say nothing to 
Lilah. She is a great sufferer. I do not think we can hold 
her accountable like other people. And, after all,” with 
some bitterness — “it was true. You said all that, and 
more, about Mrs. Chandos.” 

His mother was silent. She could not deny it, but she 
was extremely anxious not to irritate her son or increase 
his trouble. 

“You must indeed be hard to please,” he went on, with 
some excitement ; “ a woman who is as good and kind as an 
angel, and the most perfect and pure-minded lady that 
ever breathed.” 

Poor Mrs. Chester dared not say, as she would fain have 
done, that these qualities availed nothing against the ab- 
sence of religion in a woman. Though, since she had seen 
more of Peine and obr^erved that she went to church and 
behaved with great apparent reverence and devoutness 
when there, her prejudice had been considerably shaken. 
Still, she could not forget that Mrs. Chandos had written 
poetry she disapproved of ; that she had been divorced from 
her husband, absolutely blameless though she was in the 
matter; and that she was very nearly her son’s age— all of 
which circumstances made her in the mother’s opinion a 
most undesirable wife for him. » 

But she would not vex him now by discussing these ob- 
jections, and contented herself by expressing extreme re- 
gret for what had happened ; and finally they parted out- 
wardly on friendly terms but inwardly sore at heart. 

Jack, who was wont to sleep from the moment he laid, 
down his head on his pillow until he was called, passed a 
troubled night. By morning he had resolved that, how- 
ever difficmt and painful the task, he would express to 
Mrs. Chandos his grief and regret for the insult she had re- 
ceived, 


220 


ONCE AGAIN 


He went down to the dower-house soon after breakfast, 
intending to ask for an interview with Heine. But when 
he drew near the house he saw her seated alone under the 
cedar with a book in her hand. As he approached her and 
she read his suffering in his face, her kind heart was 
touched, and she received him pleasantly. 

He sat down beside her, and she made some trifling gen- 
eral remark with a view of putting him at his ease. Ho 
did not answer it ; his heart was full of what he had come 
to say, though his tongue would not all at once give utter- 
ance to it. Suddenly he turned to her, the color flushing 
to his face. 

“Mrs. Chandos,” he stammered, “I am not clever at 
words, you must forgive me if I speak bluntly, but I have 
never in my life been so cut up as at hearing that my sister 
had said such unpardonable things to you. Poor little girl ! 
I cannot think she meant any harm, and you are so good 
and kind that I beg and pray you to forgive her, because 
you know she is not quite like other people. ’ ’ 

Peine put out her hand frankly to him. 

“ Do not say another word !” she said, smiling a kind, re- 
assuring smile. ‘ ‘ I have forgotten it, and am only vexed 
that you should ever have heard of it.” 

“ Oh !” gasped Jack, covering her hand with kisses, “you 
are an angel ! But I cannot forget it. To think that you, 
whom I love and respect more than any woman in the 
world — yes,” as Peine made a warning gesture— “ yes, ” 
passionately, “ it must come out! I know I am nothing to 
you. I know it would be presumption and madness for 
me ever to think of you, except as some one far above me 
and out of my reach ; but that does not prevent my loving 
and worshiping you with all my soul. Do not be angry 
with me!” as she drew her hand away: “ I expect nothing, 
I hope for nothing, but I beseech you to let me be your 
friend, your slave— anything, so that I may sometimes see 
you and be near you.” 

“ Do not say any more!” uttered Peine, very gently and 
kindly. “You shall always be my friend. But now I want 
to tell you something which I hope will make you happier 
in your mind. I have never been very proud of my poetry, 
and I have often thought it might give people a wrong im- 
pression about me. I could see after you had read it that 
you did not approve of it.” 

He would have protested, but she silenced him by a gest 
ure. 

“And I can quite understand,” she went on, “that it 
horrified your mother. It was written when I was suffer- 
ing acutely and looked at things very likely in a morbid 
and distorted way. Writing soothed me at the time, but 


ONCE AGAIN 


m 

I have come to the conclusion that it was a mistake to pub- 
lish those poems. I wrote yesterday and ordered that all 
the copies that can be procured are to be bought and sent 
to me. They will soon be forgotten ; and that is the best 
fate for them. ” 

Jack looked at her in mingled wonder and admiration. 
He felt no inclination to dissuade her from such a step: 
nay, he rejoiced to think that alien eyes should not in the 
future read the impassioned words she had once w]*itten. 

Eeine knew by intuition what was passing in his mind, 
and, if it gave a slight wound to her vanity, she felt no 
resentment against him, recognizing as she did the truth 
and honesty of his heart. 

How he longed at that moment to pour forth all his de- 
votion and adoration before her I The most extravagant 
words would have seemed inadequate to express what he 
felt; but he had so great an awe of her, so deep a con- 
sciousness of his own inferiority, that he dared not let his 
lips plead for him. But his eyes were eloquent enough, 
and Heine was rather relieved at this juncture by the sight 
of Mrs. Herbert coming toward them across the lawn. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

December had come ; Dulcie was again on a visit to the 
Fawcetts, and this time, as before, without her mother. 
They had been little together since they left the Hall, for 
the strain of their relations had become intolerable to both, 
and Mrs. Vernon preferred to risk the remarks of her 
friends, to living in a constant state of irritation and fear. 
Dulcie had spent the greater part of the autumn with Mrs. 
Leslie, whps always kind and cheery, felt very sorry for the 
girl and did her best to amuse and comfort her ; and, after 
that, she had paid visits to one or two intimate friends. 
The elder of Mrs. Fawcett’s daughters had recently married, 
and Mary, the younger, who had always been fond of 
Dulcie, was delighted to hgye her to replace the sister whose 
companionship she missed so much. 

Dulcie was unquestionably improved by her sorrows. 
She had always been gentle and amiable, but now she 
seemed more thoughtful, more sympathetic ; there was less 
of the butterfly about her. 

“fused,” Mrs. Fawcett conflded to her husband, “to 
think Dulcie rather silly and flighty : but she has improved 
amazingly since last year. I wish she and Charlie would 
take a fancy to each other. She will have a thousand a 
year when she comes of age, and more than treble that 
when her mother dies.” 


ONCE AGAIN 


m 

“ It would be very handy for Charlie,” replied her lord; 
“ but I fear it is too great a bit of luck to come off.” 

It was a fatality that people would always insist on mar- 
rying and giving Dulcie in marriage ; but it was hardly an 
exceptional case, for if a girl is pretty, good-tempered, and 
has a nice little fortune, she is likely to have as many can- 
didates for her hand as Solomon had wives. 

Mary Fawcett and Dulcie, being great friends, always 
performed together the rites of brushing out their hair over 
each other’s bedroom fires, as is the wont of friends. 

On the evening when we meet Dulcie again after three 
months’ absence, Mary came into her room waving a silver 
brush in the delightful excitement consequent on having a 
piece of interesting news to communicate. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Dulcie ! I have just been hearing such a bit of 
news from Charlie! It is a profound secret: he made me 
swear not to tell any one, but of course I made a mental 
reservation in favor of you. He does not want father and 
mother to know, though it is bound to come out before 
very long. You remember that young Trevor who was 
staying here last winter? I used to think he was rather 
fond of you.” 

It was convenient that Dulcie could use her hair as a veil 
to screen from her friend’s eyes the blush that covered her 
face at the abrupt mention of a name connected with such 
painful ideas and fraught with such bitter memories. 

‘‘He really is dreadfully unlucky. You know what an 
awful accident he had in the winter — was thrown out of a 
hansom and all but killed; and now he has got into the 
most fearful scrape in India and will have to leave the reg- 
iment.” 

Dulcie’ s heart beat fast. Mary had paused, apparently 
expecting some sign of interest from her auditor. 

“Well,” said Dulcie, interrogatively, still keeping her 
hair over her face and making vigorous pretense of brush- 
ing. 

“Well,” returned Mary, “it seems that he went out to 
India in the same ship with his colonel’s wife. Charlie has 
met her. She is a fair, sentimental sort of woman, he says, 
a tremendous flirt, but a good deal older than Noel, and 
rather good-looking— made up very well at least. And 
tliere has been an awful row, and the colonel has applied 
for a divorce, and Noel is to be co-respondent.” 

Dulcie could not utter a word. Conflicting feelings were 
chasing each other though her mind. She did not know 
whether to be glad, sorry, indignant, or disgusted. She 
had fancied that he was too devoted to her to care for any 
other woman; but, with a bitter recollection of Alwyne, 
she supposed men were all alike — a month was long enough 


ONCE AGAIN 


223 


for them to forget one woman in and to take up with an- 
other. Perhaps, now, she would be able to free herself 
from him, and strange to say, the thought did not give 
her the rapture that one might have expected. I am not 
sure that in her heart she did not feel a slightly -increased 
respect for and interest in her husband. 

Mary had paused, and was evidently disappointed that 
Dulcie did not take more interest in this very exciting piece 
of gossip. 

** You don’t seem surprised!” she said, in rather a morti- 
fied tone. 

” I am never surprised at anything a man does,” replied 
Dulcie; ” that is, if it is anything b^.” 

” Good gracious!” cried Mary, opening her eyes. “ The 
idea of your talking like that! As if you had ever had any 
experience of their badness!” 

“ Oh, one hears enough,” returned Dulcie. “ Here is an 
instance. This man that everybody thought so nice goes 
and does the meanest thing possible— pretended, I dare say, 
to take care of her on the way out, and then — that is the 
end of it — he gets the wretched woman into trouble and 
ruins her life.” 

Dulcie was surprised herself at the angry vehemence 
with which she spoke. 

“ Charlie says,’’ resumed Mary, “ that he believes it was 
all her doing. He says Noel wasn’t that sort, but she was 
known to be a regular flirt, and he thinks very likely her 
husband wanted to get rid of her, and that it is a plant. 
Now I suppose, poor fellow, he’ll have to marry her; and a 
nice thing that will be for him, to be tied to a woman years 
older than himself. He will have to leave the regiment, 
which will be an awful blow to him; and Charlie hears that 
he is coming home and going to exchange. ’ ' 

“Did your brother tell you anything more?” asked 
Dulcie, in rather a husky voice. 

“No; he did not know any more. He has not heard 
from Noel himse^, but thinks he is sure to write, as they 
are such friends. ' Very likely, poor fellow, he is not quite 
right in his head yet; they thought at one time he never 
would be. You know he came to our party in the season 
and had a fit there and was obliged to be t^en hojne in a 
cab. I think you had left, though, before it happened.” 

“Yes, I believe we had two or three parties that night,” 
answered Dulcie, hastily, for veracity, as we know, was not 
her strong point. 

“Anyhow, his career is done for,” said Mary, regret- 
fully. “If he had been rich or a swell he might have got 
out of it; but, as it is, he hasn’t a chance.” 

Dulcie sat over the fire long after her friend left her 


224 


ONCE AGAIN, 


that night, wondering what Avould happen. The divorce, 
she supposed, would come on in England, and perhaps all 
would come out about Noel being a married man, and her 
name would be dragged in. She felt dreadfully perturbed 
in her mind, and would have given the world to have had 
some friend to confide in and of whom she could ask coun- 
sel. She was indignant against Noel ; it was the first time 
she had recognized the fact that he belonged to her. He 
had pretended at Brighton to be broken-hearted about her, 
and a month later he could console himself with a married 
woman. And he was coming back to England! Well, in 
any case, after this he would not dare to approach her; 
that was one comfort. 

But Dulcie felt wounded in spirit. Little less than a 
year ago both he and Alwyne had seemed so passionately 
in love with her that it had appeared impossible they should 
think of any other woman; and now one was married and 
apparently devoted to his wife, and the other had ruined 
his career for the sake of a woman who, according to Mary’s 
account, was neither young nor in any way desirable. She 
was glad, Dulcie told herself, with unusual bitterness of 
feeling, that she was cut off from any more intimate rela- 
tions with men in the future, and not likely to suffer from 
their treachery and changeal3leness. Of course after this 
she would never have anything to say to Noel. Perhaps if 
he had not behaved in this shameful way she might in 
time have been reconciled to the idea of being his wife, but 
now he had by his own act put that utterly out of the 
question. Dulcie, who was not naturally vindictive, 
thought that she would like to have the opportunity of 
telling him what she thought of his behavior. It was a 
comfort that that horrid creature who had, no doubt, 
counted on marrying him would be disappointed. Dulcie 
went to bed extremely perturbed in her mind, and it was a 
long time before sleep came to soothe her angry and ex- 
cited feelings. The wrong we do others and the wrong 
they do us present themselves to us in such very dispro- 
portionate lights. 

Dulcie’ s visit to the Fawcetts came to an end without her 
hearing anything more of Noel or the impending divorce. 
If Mary heard anything she would be sure to tell her, Dul- 
cie thought; and she was afraid of asking any question, 
for fear of exciting suspicion. She went to spend Christ- 
mas with Mrs. Leslie. Her mother was far from well : the 
nervous excitement and irritation of the last twelve months 
had preyed seriously on her spirits, and she had, besides, 
suffered for some weeks from a bronchial catarrh. She 
had begged Eeine as a very great favor to accompany her, 
at all events for a month or two, to the south of France, 


ONCE AGAIN 


225 


and Reine had given up another engagement to comply 
with her request, feeling seriously concerned about her 
aunt’s health and very sorry for her mental disquietude. 

It had been arranged that Dulcie should divide her time 
during her mother’s absence between Mrs. Leslie and the 
Fawcetts. It was alleged as the reason for her not accom- 
panying Mrs. Vernon that she disliked being abroad, and 
that the climate of the Riviera had not suited her the 
previous winter. 

Dulcie had not been long with Mrs. Leslie before she con- 
fided to her Noel’s iniquity, and that sprightly lady took 
an immense interest in the recital, and reflected to herself 
that it was quite possible this shocking behavior on his 
part might pique Dulcie into taking more interest in him, 
even though at first it might be interest of an adverse 
kind. She made great allowances for him in her own 
mind, which was perhaps a little too liberal and tolerant 
in her regard for masculine weakness. She said to herself : 

“But what on earth could the girl expect? He was de- 
voted to her, and she treated him shamefully, and told him 
plainly that her only desire in life was to get rid of him 
and marry another man; and yet she is surprised that 
after this he should presume to look at a woman, instead 
of spending the rest of his life in regretting her. She put 
this in a mild way before Dulcie, who refused to admit any 
excuse for him, though perhaps in her own mind she may 
have been aware that Mrs. Leslie’s ideas were far from 
unreasonable. 

Her meeting with Alwyne had had one beneficial result. 
She no longer thought of him in the romantic way that she 
had previously done, nor could she lay the flattering unc- 
tion to her soul that he was indifferent to his wife or pin- 
ing after her. She did not confide to Mrs. Leslie the meet- 
ing with Alwyne ; her vanity was too sore on the subject, 
and perhaps her heart, for there is no question that she 
had given him all that she had of love. 

She spent part of January with Mrs. Leslie at Brighton, 
and one morning when she had been alone to visit her 
aunt, who lived near Kemp Town, she, on leaving the 
house, crossed the road and seated herself on one of the 
embrasured seats overlooking the sea, similar to that on 
which the tragic little scene with Noel had been enacted. 
It w^as a still morning; the sky was a clear, pale blue, and 
the sun gleamed golden on the little rippling waves which 
a faint breeze stirred. Dulcie felt very lonely as she re- 
called the summer morning when she. had been so hard to 
Noel because of his rival. Yes, she admitted that she had 
been hard to him, and she remembered for the first time, 
with a twinge of pity, how sad and miserable he had 


226 ONCE AGAIN 

looked. And what was his offense? Could he help that 
dreadful accident which had caused him months of suffer- 
ing? Then, just as she was growing to pity and to feel 
some softness toward him, she remembered with a flush 
about the colonel’s wife and how short a time it had taken 
him to console himself. She shut up her heart against 
him in a moment, and, rising abruptly, walked hastily 
home to rejoin Mrs. Leslie. 

Mrs. Vernon had recovered from her bronchitis, but she 
did not intend returning to England before the end of 
March. She had met many pleasant friends at Cannes, 
and was thoroughly enjoying the life. Above all things 
she appreciated the relief of being away from Dulcie. She 
no longer felt angry or bitter against her — she was thank- 
ful to hear that she was well and cheerful — but she felt that 
for both their sakes it was better they should be apart 
until they could again take up the threads of life together. 
When she allowed her mind to dwell on the matter, which 
she very seldom did, the future looked as blank and im- 
possible as ever. What was to be the end of it? and would 
“the wretched husband,” as she called Noel to herself, 
continue tamely to submit to being kicked out of his wife’s 
life, or would he at some time or other assert and vindicate 
his rights? She and Reine had talked it over once or twice ; 
but, as neither knew anything of Noel’s nature and tem- 
perament, and both had been so entirely surprised b}' Dul- 
cie 's unaccountable and unreasonable conduct, they* could 
only indulge in speculations which they felt to be unprofit- 
able. 

Reine had left her aunt now, and was in Florence. Jack 
had conflded to Mrs. Herbert the little scene that had 
taken place between him and Mrs. Chandos, and had, with 
a burning face, recounted his own temerity, and Mrs. 
Herbert had drawn not unfavorable augury from the fact 
that, after this rash act of his, Reine had not snubbed him 
nor treated him with haughtiness, but had been quite as 
friendly as before, if not more so. When she saw Reine, 
just before she went abroad, Jack’s champion ventured to 
say a word in his behalf, which Mrs. Chandos received 
with smiling toleration ; but when her friend dwelt on the 
depths of his feelings the younger lady affected to make 
light of them and refused to discuss the subject seriously. 
Still, Mrs. Herbert saw indications that Reine was getting 
somewhat weary of a wandering life, and that she felt 
painfully at times the loneliness of her lot and a yearning 
toward the ties of home and family. 

February had come, and Dulcie, according to promises 
exchanged, had returned to spend a month with the Faw- 
cetts. The first week of her return the house was very 


ONCE AGAIN 


227 


quiet, but the one following there was to be a ball in the 
house — a country ball and a hunt ball : so that it would be 
a very gay time indeed. Charlie Fawcett was in London, 
and was to return on the Monday, bringing a couple of 
friends with him. Two young ladies were to arrive the 
same day, and the house would be full of guests. Mary 
was in great spirits, anticipating immense pleasure frorn 
the coming gayeties; and Dulcie, whose spirits were much 
improved of late, entered cheerfully into her friend’s feel- 
ings, and was ready to talk about the coming festivities to 
Mary’s heart’s content. 

Monday came, and Mrs. Fawcett with her daughter and 
Dulcie were in the morning-room after breakfast. She was 
writing a letter ; the two girls were arranging flowers. 

A telegram was brought in, and Mrs. Fawcett, having 
glanced over it, communicated its contents to her compan- 
ions without turning her head. 

“It is from Charlie,” she said. “‘Byng,’” reading 
aloud, “‘cannot come. Have asked Trevor. Just back 
from India.’ ” 

Dulcie trembled violently ; she felt as if she must faint. 
Fortunately, Mary had run to look over her mother’s 
shoulder to make quite sure that she had read the’ name 
correctly, and Dulcie had time to compose herself. A mo- 
ment later she left the room and went up-stairs. She sat 
down in the nearest chair and looked vacantly into space. 
What should she do? How could she possibly avoid this 
dreadful meeting? It soon became obvious to her that she 
could not avoid it. It was impossible to make any plausi- 
ble excuse for leaving the gayeties for which she had ex- 
pressly come. Perhaps, she thought, Charlie would tell 
Noel that she was a guest in the house, and then, of course, 
if he had any gentlemanlike feeling, he would invent a pre- 
text for staying away even at the last moment. 

When she returned to the morning-room she found Mary 
alone. 

“ It is awfully daring of Charlie, I think,” said the young 
lady, “to ask Mr. Trevor here under the circumstances. 
Mamma will be furious with him when she knows what 
has happened. I really wonder at him. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” returned Dulcie, with what calmness she could 
muster. “And it is sure to come out sooner or later. 
Such a disgraceful affair, too!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

We must retrace our steps in order to pick up one of the 
threads of the story and go back to poor Noel after his last 
interview with the wife who rejected and repudiated him. 


228 


ONCE AGAIN, 


He was as nearly heart-broken as ever was a kind-hearted, 
affectionate young fellow who adored a woman in vain. 
All the delightful visions which had cheered his convales- 
cent hours, of having his darling restored to his longing 
arms, were rudely shattered ; in vain he reminded himself 
of his rights — of the fact that she was his lawful wife, and 
that he could compel her to live with him. But the poor 
lad had not counted on a captive, an unwilling victim. 
Surely if any man ever had reason to believe that he was 
beloved for himself, it was, up to the moment of his ter- 
rible awakening, Noel. He was poor, of small social 
importance, and his bride had given up a happy, luxurious 
home for his sake, and had been ready to go with him into 
the wide world, to face poverty with him and to follow 
whatever fortune might be his. 

Noel was too chivalrous of heart to lay the blame on her ; 
indeed, it is very difficult to make a good-hearted young 
man believe anything against his idol; he was much 
more prone to believe that devilish arts and machina- 
tions had been practiced on her guileless mind, either by 
Alwyne or her mother. She had probably, in the first 
place, been influenced against him, and had then fallen a 
prey to the man who now exercised this dreadful influence 
over her. And, as we know, these suspicions and surmises 
were not very wide of the mark. 

There was only one thing for him to do now, and that 
was to get away. She was his ; but he would not claim 
her, since she was unwilling ; he had no taste for a woman 
who loathed and revolted against his caresses— he only 
hungered for her love. The future was a blank to him ; on 
what would happen in the days to come, he could not even 
attempt to speculate ; the only thought which smiled upon 
him now was that in which he pictured the possibility of a 
soldier’s death. Since he might not live tor her, how 
gladly would he die for his love I But there was the bitter- 
ness of leaving her to another ; and few men are heroic 
enough to efface themselves from a woman’s life in order 
that she may repose happily on the breast of a rival. Sore 
indeed was the poor fellow’s heart as he made arrange- 
ments to leave his country, and with it hope and all he 
had counted upon to make life dear. A draft of his regi- 
ment was on the eve of going out, and it happened that the 
officer appointed to take it had particular reason for wish- 
ing to remain in England, so the exchange was effected 
easily enough. 

The first person he met on board ship was Mrs. Frank- 
lin, the wife of his colonel. Noel had never seen very 
much of her ; he was aware that she had the reputation of 
being giving to flirtation, and that her husband was re- 


ONCE AGAIN 


229 


ported to be jealous of her. Meeting her in his voyage out 
inspired him with no feeling of any kind ; he was neither 
pleased nor sorry to find her his traveling companion; all 
women save one were absolutely indifferent to him. It 
was not so with Mrs. Franklin. She could not exist with- 
out a squire to pay her attention and look after her com- 
forts, and she at once determined that Noel should be her 
property, and laid herself out to captivate him. She had 
been a very pretty woman, and still preserved her looks by 
the help of a little judicious recourse to art, not patent to 
the uncritical eye. She had a caressing and sympathetic 
manner, and, although she was really a heartless and 
selfish little woman, she was clever enough to make men 
believe her exactly what she chose to seem. She was an- 
noyed to find this good-looking and well-mannered young 
man afflicted with melancholy ; his sighs, his dejected ap- 
pearance, his lack of interest in everything, bored her ex- 
ceedingly ; but, as she intended to enlist his services during 
the voyage, she reflected how best to gain an influence over 
him, and selected sympathy as the most suitable card to 
play on the occasion. 

Noel was like a child in her hands ; he was soon ready to 
dance to any tune which the clever little lady piped, and 
after a few days he could not be happy out of her presence. 
For by her pretense of sympathy, she had gradually drawn 
from him the story of his woes, and in time he confided to 
her everything except the name of the girl who had made 
him so profoundly miserable. He became cheerful and al- 
most happy after indulging in the unspeakable relief of 
talking about his woes, for he had been forced, up to the 
present time, to keep them to himself. The story was suf- 
ficiently strange to be interesting, and Mrs. Franklin en- 
couraged his confidences, and pretended ten times more in- 
terest in them than she really felt. 

She had the same fair-haired, pretty, feminine type of 
beauty as Dulcie, and in some ways reminded Noel of his 
lost love, and he became so devoted to her that he was per- 
petually beside her, showing her the greatest attention, and 
anxious to anticipate her every wish. It was, therefore, 
not surprising that his behavior gave wrong impressions to 
people who witnessed it. Mrs. Franklin knew quite well 
that he was not in love with her, but it suited her vanity to 
let it he thought that he was her slave. 

As for Noel, he felt the sincerest affection for the kind, 
pretty, tender-hearted little woman, as he thought her, and 
would have gone through fire and water to serve her, but 
love, love such as he felt for Dulcie, was furthest from his 
thoughts. There was no passion in the eyes with which he 
looked at her; his pulses never beat a shade faster at the 


280 


ONCE AGAIN 


touch of her hand ; his feeling was the tranquil affection he 
might have had for a beloved sister. 

Mrs. Franklin bestowed confidences on him in return — 
gave him to understand that she was not appreciated by 
her lord, and evoked much sympathy from him by the 
narration of her grievances. She did not bring any seri- 
ous charge against the colonel, as indeed a cleverer woman 
than she would have been puzzled to do. The friendly 
relations commenced on the passage out were carred on 
after their arrival in India. Noel continued to find his 
greatest happiness in the society of his colonel’s wife, 
which he constantly sought. Being absolutely free from 
evil intent, he was unaware that the lady’s reputation suf- 
fered from his attentions; but she, although not equally 
ignorant, did not discourage them, being piqued into 
greater warmth of feeling for him by his want of passion 
for her. She wanted to conquer him and to make him for- 
get Dulcie ; it hurt her vanity that he should only regard 
her as a sister, and that she had no power over him more 
than friendship gives. A word, a signal from Dulcie, and 
he would have had no eyes or ears for any other woman, 
but would have been ready to overleap any obstacle to get 
back to her. 

People talked, as people talk everywhere, but notably 
in India, and the colonel got an inkling of it, greatly to his 
displeasure. Men have different ways of showing and feel- 
ing jealousy; some hate the man whom they believe to be 
their rival, and feel comparatively little rancor toward the 
woman who causes their misery ; others feel all the bitter- 
ness against the woman, and can be perfectly civil and be- 
have with apparent unsuspiciousness to the man whom she 
seems to favor. The latter was the colonel’s case. He was 
furious with his wife, but perfectly civil and courteous to 
Noel, so that the subaltern never for a moment suspected 
the tornado that was threatening. He did not feel so 
kindly to his' superior officer as he would have liked to do, 
because he believed him to be harsh and unkind to his 
wife; and Noel, being her avowed champion, could not bear 
the thought of any one vexing her, and was quite ready to 
fight her battles. 

Mrs. Franklin was cart^ful not to let him know that he 
was the cause of the frequent dissensions between herself 
and her husband, as she shrewdly suspected that he ,would 
at once insist on the misunderstanding being cleared up, 
as much out of justice to himself for Dulcie’ s sake, as for 
her own. 

Late one evening Noel was sitting with Mrs. Franklin, 
and she was employed in confiding to him her sorrows — 
the cruelty of ner husband, and her own wretchedness, 


ONCE AGAIN. 


231 


which she declared herself unable longer to endure. She 
wept ; she was evidently grievously afflicted ; and tender- 
hearted Noel was miserable at the sight of her tribulation 
and full of eager desire to console her. He drew his chair 
close beside her; he affectionately stroked and clasped 
the hand that she put in his ; he was so full of tenderness 
and sympathy that it broke out into words of endear- 
ment. 

“ My poor little darling!” he said, moved to strong feel- 
ing. “ I wish to God I could do something for you! Can- 
not I get you away from that brute!” 

And with this, as he was in the act of kissing the hand 
he held, that brute, who, presumably, had been watching 
his opportunity, dashed in, aimed a blow at Noel which 
nearly upset him out of his chair, and prepared to follow 
it up with another, meantime looking like a madman and 
pouring forth the most opprobrious epithets on each of the 
pair. 

Now, it may be all very well for a man with a guilty 
conscience to make a passive target of himself for the blows 
of an outraged husband, but Noel’s conscience being as 
clear as the sun at noonday, he had no intention of submit- 
ting tamely to chastisement; he was, besides, much in- 
censed against the colonel for his treatment of his wife. 
’So he promptly got on his legs and showed fight, and, being 
young and athletic, was more than a match for his assail- 
ant. 

Mrs. Franklin shrieked, and at the sound of hurrying 
feet, the colonel, not wishing to be found engaged in com- 
bat with his subaltern, ceased his attack, and, pointing 
furiously at the door, desired Noel to be gone. But Noel 
absolutely refused to go until he received an explanation. 
It was fortunate that at this moment Major Black, who 
had been with the colonel in another part of the house, ap- 
peared upon the scene. He shrewdly surmised the cause 
of the anray, and, being well disposed to both men, was 
anxious to act as mediator.. 

Mrs. Franklin threw herself hystercially upon him. 

“Oh, save me! save me! part them! part them!” she 
shrieked, in terror; and the major, thinking she would be 
better out of the way, escorted her trembling form to the 
door and begged her in a friendly tone to seek her own 
apartment. 

“No, by G !” roared the colonel. “She does not stop 

under my roof. She shall go out neck and crop with her 
lover here!” 

Noel, meanwhile, stood his ground with considerable dig- 
nity, though the major made a friendly gesture with his 
head as though advising his departure. 


233 


ONCE AGAIN. 


“ Certainly not, ” said Noel. “ I do not stir from here 
until I know the meaning of Colonel Franklin’s behavior 
and the reason of his attack upon me. ’ ’ 

The good-natured major reflected that, for a young one, 
Noel was a pretty cool hand. 

The colonel swore in a manner appalling to listen to. 

“ You want an explanation!” he shouted, interlarding 
every word with an oath. “It is not enough that I And 
you sitting hand in hand with my wife and proposing to 
take her away from ‘ that hrute^ ’ as you were good enough 
to call me!” 

“ If you heard me say that,” said Noel, “ you must have 
been listening at the door, which is not quite the action of 
a gentleman; and if you can behave like this before a 
woman who has not done the least harm in the world, I 
think it is high time she did leave you ” 

Here the colonel made a feint of rushing at Noel again, 
but the major interposed his portly person, for, like the 
major of tradition, he was portly. 

” Come, come, colonel!” he said, “command yourself! 
And you,” to Noel, “go— there’s a good fellow! I’ll see 
you by and by.” 

“ No,” repeated Noel, with great determination, “ I shall 
not stir from this room until the matter is cleared up. If , 
the colonel imagines that I have done him any wrong or 
that there is anything between Mrs. Franklin and myself, 
he is entirely mistaken. I have the greatest friendship for 
her, but I look upon her as though she were my sister, and 
if he saw me kiss her hand to-night, and heard me speak to 
her in a manner which he may think too familiar, it was 
nothing but sheer pity and sympathy at seeing her so dis^ 
tressed and unhappy.” 

Not only was the major staggered by Noel’s coolness, but 
the colonel was equally so. He believed him to be brazen- 
ing it out, and cried, furiously : 

“All right, sir. We will see what sort of account you 
give of yourself in the div^orce court.” 

“ Divorce court!” echoed Noel. “I think, sir, you must 
be out of your mind. I take my solemn oath before God 
that nothing but the purest friendship has ever existed be- 
tween myself and Mrs. Franklin.” 

“ Ha, ha! we shall see! we shall see!” roared the colonel. 

“Now, Trevor,” exclaimed the major, “for God’s sake 
get out of this, like a good fellow. Come round to me pres- 
ently.” 

And Noel, with his head well up, marched out, looking 
like anything but a guilty lover discovered. 

The colonel was so violent about his wife when his subal- 
tern had departed that the kind-hearted major was afraid 


ONCE AGAIN. 




to leave her under the same roof with him, and ended by 
carrying her off to his wife’s protection. Meantime, he 
implored Franklin, for his own sake and the sake of the 
regiment, not to have a scandal, and declared that he .would 
thoroughly investigate the matter and come round again 
in the morning. 

The major was a good deal puzzled about Noel. He 
knew that he and Mrs. Franklin had been much talked 
about, and he did not in his own mind think they could be 
quite as innocent as the young man protested ; but, after 
his high and lofty bearing, the major said to himself that 
he must either have spoken the truth or be the most thun- 
dering blackguard in creation. 

He found Noel waiting for him on his return home. 

“This is a bad business,” said the major, shaking his 
head with a somewhat reproacliful meaning in voice and 
gesture. 

“Yes,” replied Noel, “ it is a very bad business for any 
woman to be tied to a maniac like that.” 

“Come, come,” responded the major, “you had better 
get off the stilts with me. You know it is a devilish awk- 
ward position for both you and the lady. You cannot 
justify sitting hand in hand with her and abusing her hus- 
band to her behind his back !” 

“Why, major,” cried Noel, “what else could any man 
with a heart in his body do when he saw the dearest, kind- 
est little woman in the world, the woman who had been 
his best friend in trouble, but try to comfort her?” 

“My dear chap, ” retorted the major, “ it is all very well, 
but a man is not allowed either by law or by public opin- 
ion to comfort another man’s wife in that sort of way. 
And you must know quite well that you two have been a 
great deal talked about of late. ’ ’ 

“Talked about!” uttered Noel, looking blank. 

The major made an impatient gesture. 

“You're a devilish good actor, Trevor,” he said, “ but if 
I am to be your friend you had better drop that sort of 
thing.” 

Noel looked half astonished, half indignant. 

“ I am not an actor, major, and never was one. Neither 
am I a liar.” 

“Well, well,” said the good-natured major, “I cannot 
understand your being ignorant of what every one else 
knows. You have been like Mrs. Franklin’s shadow ever 
since you came out ; and of course it has made people talk. 
I don’t say that there has beai any absolute harm— I hope 
for everybody’s sake there has not— but when a man is al- 
ways in a woman’s pocket, people are bound to talk. Any- 
how, the colonel has got wind of it, and, though he is a 


m 


ONCE AGAIN. 


good-hearted fellow in the main, he’s as jealous as the 
devil. And she’s a regular little flirt. -This is not the first 
time there has been a row. ’ ’ 

“ She is the best woman that ever breathed, ” cried Noel, 
stoutly, “and she’s as pure as an angel. Never once, I 
swear, has a single word passed between us that her hus- 
band might not have heard, except so far as his own 
brutal behavior might have made it unpleasant to his ears, 
like to-night. I was in awful trouble when I met her, 
and she has been like a sister to me all through. If it had 
not been for her, I think sometimes I should have been 
tempted to blow my brains out. Look here, major, I will 
tell you about it ; but I trust to your honor to keep secret, 
unless you think, for Mrs. Franklin’s sake, the colonel 
ought to know it. I am married.” And Noel blushed like 
a girl. “I adore my wufe — there is not another woman 
in the world I would look at in that sort of way — and I am 
separated from her, not through any fault of mine. It 
has nearly driven me mad. Mrs. Franklin knows all 
about it, and that is wh^ I have been with her so much, 
because, like the dear, kind soul she is, she was sorry for 
me, and would always let me talk to her about my miser- 
able affairs. 

The major gave a sigh of relief. It would have been 
impossible for the most skeptical mind to doubt the truth 
of Noel’s statement, so simply afid unaffectedly did he 
make it. 

“It only shows,” said the major, “how apt people are 
to jump to wrong conclusions. But the deuce will be to 
make the colonel believe it. And I don’t see how you are 
to get over the fact of having been found kissing her hand 
and calling him a brute. Even if he makes it up with her, 
I don’t see how you can stop in the regiment after what 
happened to-night.” 

Noel groaned in spirit. What dreadful Nemesis pursued 
him and made him bring trouble on every woman he cared 
for? He had thought at first, in the innocence of his heart, 
that a few words of explanation on his part would suffice 
to put everything straight ; but he found, to his cost, that 
you may not, even with the most innocent intentions, call 
another man’s wife darling, and himself a brute, nor kiss 
her hands and hold them in yours, though you feel to her 
as a brother, and though your heart is as pure toward her 
as the driven snow. 

The poor major got almost thin in his efforts to mediate. 
The colonel raged like a wild bull, and would talk of noth- 
ing but divorce. If Noel had a wife, so much the greater 
blackguard was he to behave in the way he had done. 
Mrs. Franklin went away to stay with friends whilst the 


ONCE AGAIN, 


235 


kind-hearted major and his equally kind-hearted wife did 
their best to smooth matters down for her with her hus- 
band and in the regiment. For, of course, the affair got 
noised abroad ; and that was how the news traveled home 
to Charlie Fawcett. 

It was finally arranged that Noel should have leave of ab- 
sence until he could exchange into another regiment. At 
this juncture a very unexpected piece of good fortune 
jumped into the scale which the blind goddess seemed to 
be holding so unequally. Noel, who had been at his Avits’ 
end about matters of finance, received the intelligence that 
theaunt Avhohad nursed him through his illness had added 
to her benefactions by dying suddenly and leaving him 
some six hundred a year. 

Straightway he resolved to go to England. He knew 
that Alwyne Temple was married, and his heart burned 
with the hope that perhaps, now that his rival was re- 
moved, Dulcie might look less coldly upon him. And as 
he looked at himself in the glass (heaven knows that vanity... 
was the last foible of which he was guilty) and saw his 
bronzed face with the glow of restored health upon it, and 
his stalwart, vigorous figure, he thought that he might 
perhaps have a better chance than the poor, haggard in- 
valid who had evidently inspired such unpleasing emotions 
in Dulcie’ s breast. 

But whatever he might feel of hope or agreeable antici- 
pation was dashed by the thought that he had, however 
innocently, brought misfortune on the woman who had 
been so good to him, h-nd whom he would so fain haA^e 
protected and defended. He was not even allowed to see 
her before leaving India, the major and his wife uniting to 
assure him that nothing could be so fatal to Mrs. Frank- 
lin’s interests as an intervieAv. He wrote her a letter such 
as the fullness of his heart dictated, and confided it to the 
major. 

And it was like a gleam of sunshine through black dark- 
ness when at Malta he got a telegram from that trusty 
friend : 

‘ ‘ All will yet be well. Am Avriting you to London. ’ ’ 

For Noel’s heart was too good to have allowed him to be 
happy whilst a woman was suffering for his sake, even 
though he had been going straight to Dulcie’ s arms. And, 
as we know, he was lar enough yet from that paradise. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Noei knew that he Avas going to meet Dulcie, and his 
heart beat to suffocation at the thought. The previous 


236 


ONCE AGAIN. 


afternoon he had met Charlie Fawcett in Pall Mall, and 
they had dined together at a club. Charlie was not long 
in letting Noel know the rumors that had reached him, 
and Noel at once gave his friend the correct version of the 
affair. Charlie was greatly relieved. If there was not 
going to be a divorce, if Noel had not done anything to 
scandalize morality and propriety, there was no reason 
why he should not be invited to the Grange ; and, as Byng 
had that very day thrown him over, he invited Noel in his 
stead. 

“We are going to have a festive week at our place,” he 
said. “ Three brails and a dinner. The Pratt girls are 
coming, and Dulcie Vernon is with us. You remember 
Dulcie? a pretty little ^rl. By the way, I think you 
rather spooned her last winter, didn’t you?” 

There was no concealing the vivid crimson that covered 
Noel’s face at these words. Charlie saw it, and good- 
naturedly pretended to be occupied with something of ab- 
sorbing interest in the street. 

Not for one moment did Noel hesitate ^bout his answer. 
He did not stop to reflect how Dulcie would feel at seeing 
him, or to think of the embarrassment of the situation; 
he thought of nothing but that he was burning to see her. 
to know if the future held any hope for him. 

“ I should like it of all things,” he answered. “Are you 
sure that I shall not be putting Mrs. Fawcett out? Has 
she room for me?” 

“ Lots of room, and only too delighted,” replied Charlie, 
cordially. “I will wire to her in the morning, and we 
will go down by the three-thirty. I will give you up my 
share of Dulcie, if you like. My people are rather keen 
about making up a match between us; but, though I don’t 
know a nicer girl, matrimony is not my game at present. 
SheTl have a nice little fortupe. It would come in handy 
for you, old chap.” 

He was not aware that he was hurting his friend’s feel- 
ings by this remark. 

“ I am not quite such a pauper as I was,” Noel replied. 
And he told Charlie of the modest fortune to which he 
had succeeded, and Charlie congratulated him with im- 
mense cordiality. He had always been fond of Noel, and 
was delighted at his good fortune. 

“ Not that you could keep a girl like Dulpie Vernon on 
seven hundred a year, or anything like it,” he remarked; 
and Noel thought to himself on how very much smaller a 
sum he had once had the temerity to think of keeping her. 
The idea seemed to him now little short of madness. 

What would she do? How would she receive him? All 
night long he lay awake, thinking, wondering— sometimes 


ONCE AGAIN 


237 


full of dread, sometimes venturing to hope a little. She 
had loved him once; why not again? 

On the journey down he was so nervous and ill at ease 
that Charlie could not help remarking it, and wondered 
whether he was still feeling the effects of his accident. 

“How is your head now?” he asked, presently. “Has 
it got all right?” 

“Yes,” Noel answered. “I think I have got over it at 
last. Every now and then I get a splitting headache if 1 
am over- tired or over-excited, but that is all.” 

“ Beastly thing a headache!” remarked Charlie. 

“Yes,” Noel assented. “I never knew what it meant 
before.” 

After this he settled down, surmising that Charlie had 
observed his uneasiness. 

When they arrived at the manor-house every one had 
gone to dress for dinner, and, much as Noel longed to see 
Dulcie, it was almost a relief, in the state of tension of his 
nerves, to have the meeting delayed. 

As he descended to the drawing-room, the gong was in 
the act of sounding. His head swam as he approached 
Mrs Fawcett, looking neither to the right nor the left. 
She greeted him warmly, and Mary came up and shook 
hands and said how glad they were to see him back from 
India. She glanced at the reprobate, as she considered 
him, with considerable interest, and thought him wonder- 
fully improved in looks. 

The procession to the dining-room had commenced, and 
Mrs. Fawcett said, hurriedly : 

“Will you take Miss Vernon? You are old friends, I 
think. I need not re-introduce you.” 

Then Noel followed the eyes of his hostess, and saw 
Dulcie sitting at a little distance, dressed all in white and 
looking like a beautiful fairy. For a moment his head 
reeled, his heart threatened to choke him, and then he 
was standing before her, holding out his arm. It would be 
difficult to say which of the two trembled the more. 
Fortunately, no one remarked their confusion. Neither 
spoke a word until they had taken their places, and then, 
as a woman often has the most presence of mind in a 
social emergency, Dulcie, without looking at him, asked if 
he had not had a cold journey. So presently Noel found 
himself talking platitudes in the most approved fashion, 
whilst he made pretense of eating his dinner ; and Dulcie 
made no pretense, but declined everything that was of- 
fered her after the soup. For when the heart is beating 
with excitement the digestive organs retire from the con- 
test and decline to perform their appointed office. It was 
a singular situation in which Noel found himself. Ho was 


238 


ONCE AGAIN. 


sitting beside his own wife, talking to her as if she were a 
stranger, whilst his heart was beating, his pulses throbbing 
wildly, and he was dying to catch her to his heart and to 
pour forth the pent-up stream of love and endearing words 
into the little ear so close to his lips. 

As for Dulcie, she was in a state of mental bewilderment, 
and could not by any means have told what her real senti- 
ments were. She was surprised to find that she did not re- 
gard Noel with the repugnance and aversion which she had 
felt for him at their last meeting. He was not the hag- 
gard, miserable-looking creature who then craved her pity, 
but a handsome, to all appearance self-possessed, and reso- 
lute-looking man. She suddenly remembered the enormity 
of his recent crime, and, sad to record, felt an increased 
respect for him, mingled with a feeling of resentment and 
an acute recollection that he had wronged her shamefully. 
Primed with this reflection, she dropped the shy and timid 
manner she had at first assumed, and put on a disdainful 
and affronted air. 

Noel had only one object in life. It was to make her care 
for him, and to prevail upon her to accept accomplished 
facts, and take him not only nominally but actually for 
better for worse. She was his wife, it was true ; but unless 
she consented to accept the situation he felt she was as far 
removed from him as though the ceremony had never been 
performed. Instinct warned him that he must of all things 
beware of frightening her ; but he could not in the least 
make up his mind whether a bold or a humble bearing 
would have the better chance of success. He had no idea 
that she was aware of the episode in India, and was furthest 
from supposing, having a clear conscience in the matter, 
that she was looking upon him with furtive interest as a 
monster of iniquity and depravity. 

There was to be an impromptu dance at the Grange after 
dinner, and Noel had been apprised of this. He was won- 
dering whether his wife would dance with him, and looking 
forward with inexpressible longing yet trepidation to put- 
ting his arm roi ind her slender; waist. 

For, though he had wooed her, persuaded her to elope 
with him, and had now been her husband for fifteen months, 
he had never yet embraced her, nor so much as kissed her 
hand. It was being in the shoes of Tantalus with a venge- 
ance. 

His very shyness gave something of coldness to his out- 
ward demeanor, which was in strong contrast to his real 
feelings ; and this was so far fortunate. Although Dulcie 
pretended to herself to resent his taking matters with a 
high hand, she secretly respected him the more for it. 

After dinner Mary came up and whispered to her : 


o:nce again. 


239 


‘‘Is he not improved? He really has grown quite hand- 
some. I thought you seemed as if you were inclined to 
snub him at dinner. It is rather unkind of you, as I dare 
say, poor fellow, he is in trouble.” 

“It is trouble of his own making,” replied Dulcie, with 
unusual severity. ” ^nd I do not think men ought to be 
encouraged who behave in that sort of way.” 

“Why, Dulcie! fancy your turning so severely moral! 
Besides, we have not heard the rights of the story yet. It 
cannot be so bad as we thought, or Charlie would not have 
dared to ask him, knowing how particular mother is.” 

“ I do not think he ought to have been asked,” returned 
Dulcie. “It makes it very awkward, because one does 
not like not to be civil to him, and yet one cannot help 
being disgusted at his behavior. ” 

Dulcie had her reasons for saying this. She wished to 
account in a plausible way for the coldness with which she 
intended to treat Noel. 

“I will get it out of Charlie to-night, or, at all events, 
to-morrow,” said Mary. “ In the meantime, if you don’t 
want him, you may turn him over to me ; for I fancy hiin 
immensely, I can tell you, and am not at all inclined to be 
down on him. If he has done anything wrong, I have no 
doubt it was all that horrid woman’s fault. Years older 
than him, too! So disgusting ! She ought to be ashamed 
of herself.” 

Mary’s words were not without their effect on Dulcie. 
She thought better of Noel since he had inspired admira- 
tion in the breast of her friend. 

Noel was very taciturn after the ladies left the room, 
and Charlie rallied him on his silence and subdued de- 
meanor. 

“ I rather feel my head,” replied Noel; and it was not 
altogether an excuse, for excitement was wont, as he had 
said, to bring on a return of liis old pain, and, quiet as 
was his manner outwardly, his breast was burning with 
mingled emotioiTs. He was trying very hard to make up 
his mind how he had best behave to his wife. It would 
not be fair upon her, he thought, to take advantage of 
people being in ignorance of their relations to each other to 
force unwilling attentions upon her. No, he would en- 
deavor to behave to her as an ordinary acquaintance might, 
and watch carefully for any indication oi her feelings to- 
ward him. 

There had not been, he was certain, the expression of 
repugnance and aversion in her eyes that had cut him to 
the heart in the summer ; the little disdainful air she had 
assumed during the latter part of the dinner had carried 
more of coquetry than repulsion in it. He was dying to 


240 


ONCE AGAIN 


ask her to dance, but controlled his desire and approached 
Mary Fawcett with a request for the first dance. She ac- 
corded it with every sign of pleasure, and Dulcie, watch- 
ing them, was unreasonable enough to feel irritated against 
both. Now, Dulcie had never, in the days of her freedom, 
been inclined to flirt. She had always a pretty, pleasing 
manner to every man, but was not in the habit of distin- 
guishing those she liked by making ‘ ‘ lightnings of her 
eyes, ’ ’ or gestures of coquetry, such as even very innocent 
young girls will use as arrows in their warfare with the 
other sex. But to-night she departed from all her tradi- 
tions and customs, and began to smile on Charlie Fawcett 
in a manner which not only gave him a pleasurable sensa- 
tion, but delighted his mother and planted a dagger in 
poor Noel’s breast. Until now he had always felt like a 
brother to Charlie, but gradually, as the evening wore on, 
the brotherly feeling grew to have something of a Cainish 
tendency. 

Dulcie saw that she was making him miserable, and felt 
secretly delighted. She said to herself, besides, that she 
was only inflicting a righteous punishment on him for his 
infidelity toward her. She made haste to give away every 
dance, bestowing three on Charlie, and when Noel ap- 
proached her she threw him an indifferent smile and re- 
gretted that she was engaged. His under lip trembled visi- 
bly ; he looked imploringly at her. 

“Will you not give me one he said ; but she answered, 

lightly: 

‘ ‘ I am very sorry, but I have not one disengaged. In 
fact, I have promised more dances than there are likely to 
be.” 

So Noel watched her from a dark corner, and saw men 
freely putting their arms round her pretty waist, their 
faces bending down to hers, her heart beating close to 
theirs, and he ground his teeth and thought of his own 
rights of which he dared not claim the smallest part, and, 
nearly mad with passion and misery, said to himself that 
waltzing was a most disgusting and immoral practice, 
which ought not to be tolerated in decent society. 

The evening came to an end, and brought him no oppor- 
tunity of exchanging a word with Dulcie. He had no heart 
to join the men in the smoking-room ; so, pleading the pain 
in his head, he went to his own room, wnere he paced up 
and down like a caged lion. He could not stand much 
more of this sort of thing, he swore, and he turned over a 
dozen different plans in his head. 

She was his wife, he kept telling himself; if he chose, he 
could enforce his rights, and the law would be on his side. 
He would insist on an interview with her, and would tell 


ONCE AGAIN 


^41 


her firmly that he could not stand this any longer; that 
since, of her own free will and choice, she had married 
him, she must abide by the consequences. It was some 
comfort to him to reflect that her mother acknowledged 
the binding nature of the tie and had advised him to act 
with firmness. 

Next day, however, no opportunity presented itself of his 
exchanging a word with her. She evaded him without any 
apparent design, but so successfully as to baffle his resolve. 
That night the ball at the Grange was to take place, and he 
asked her, as he handed her a cup of tea in the afternoon, 
if she would give him the first waltz. 

She had promised the first to Mr. Fawcett, she replied, 
with an innocent smile that transfixed him like an arrow, 
but she would be happy to give him any other except the 
third, which she had also promised Mr. Fawcett. As she 
said, “ I shall be happy,” her indifferent glance seemed to 
indicate that it would be a great bore, but she supposed 
she must submit to it. The tone was not lost on Noel, 
and it pained him keenly. 

“ Dulcie, ’ ’ observed Mary Fawcett, going into her friend’s 
room before dinner, ” you need not keep up that disdainful 
manner to Noel Trevor. I have asked Charlie about the 
Indian affair, and he says it is all right, and there is not 
going to be a divorce, after all.” 

“Keally!” uttered Dulcie, with apparent indifference. 

Mary did not continue the recital, seeing that Dulcie 
showed no interest in it : and Dulcie remained under the 
impression that, although the affair had been hushed up, 
Noel was none the less guilty. 

Poor Noel could eat no dinner again this evening, for not 
only was his heart throbbing at the thought of the dance 
which Dulcie had so indifferently accorded him, but he had 
the misery of .^sitting opposite her and Charlie and being 
witness of a decided flirtation between them. 

Dulcie had never distinguished Charlie in this manner be- 
fore, and it was extremely agreeable to the young fellow. 
He had declared that matrimony was not in his Tine, but 
he had never before had encouragement from such a pretty 
girl, and his vanity was flattered. For Dulcie was always 
an object of admiration to men, and they never failed to be 
attracted by her fair and very feminine style of beauty and 
by her gracious and amiable manners. 

If Charlie had guessed how he was hurting his friend’s 
feelings, he would certainly have abstained from evincing 
so plainly the delight he felt at Dulcie’ s preference; but he 
was as innocent as a baby in the matter, and, if he observed 
that Noel looked morose and miserable, attributed it to his 


242 ONCE AGAIN 

head, or to regretful thoughts of the fair one left behind in 
India. 

The hour approached to which Noel had been looking so 
keenly forward, but before it arrived he was filled with 
anger and misery by the sight of Dulcie leaning on his 
friend in the waltz with an abandon that stirred every fiber 
of passion in his jealous heart and made him for the time 
almost inclined to hate them both. He had a wild thought 
of taking Charlie aside and telling him the truth : if things 
went much further, he felt that he must. 

The second waltz came, and he walked up to Dulcie to 
claim it. She received him with great nonchalance, and 
when he put the arm that all his self-command could not 
restrain from trembling round her, she held herself stiff 
and upright in the most aggressively virtuous manner. 
The momentary fire which had blazed up in Noel’s breast 
died away to coldness ; he felt a gnawing sense of disap- 
pointment and mortification. He had intended to lead 
her into the conservatory as soon as the dance was over 
and to insist on an explanation, but even ere the conclud- 
ing bars were played she declared that she had torn her 
dress and must go to have it repaired, and, withdrawing 
her hand from his arm, she left him before he had time 
even to utter a remonstrance. 

When she reappeared, he begged her urgently for an- 
other dance, but she smilingly declared herself engaged for 
the remainder of the evening, and turned away as though 
there was nothing more to be said in the matter. As in- 
deed there was not. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The following evening the county ball took place, and, 
although Dulcie danced twice with Noel, she gave him no 
opportunity of saying to her what was burning in his 
heart. It was a sheer impossibility to utter in a ball- 
room, where five hundred other people were present. 

You are my wife and I will no longer live without you.” 
A certain amount of privacy was ab^solutely indispensable 
to a communication of such a nature. Entreaty, even a 
little gentle force, might perhaps be needed to eke out 
persuasion, and the five hundred and odd other persons 
formed as stout a wall as that through which Pyramus ad- 
dressed Thisbe. Noel would have asked her to give him 
an interview in the morning- room, conservatory, garden — 
anywhere — had not the conviction impressed itself upon 
him that she would not only refuse it, but take care to 
avoid any accident which might throw her into his com- 
pany alone. The time was drawing on: this was Wednes- 


ONCE AGAIN 243 

day : on Saturday' his visit would come to an end. He 
longed for some one to help him. 

Mary Fawcett was a nice, amiable girl, who seemed well 
disposed toward him; he was half inclined to beg her help 
to obtain him an interview with Dulcie ; but what pretext 
could he make for seeking one without arousing her sus- 
picions? And, imbittered as he was against Dulcie by her 
cruelty and her flirtation with Charlie, he was still anxious 
to avoid causing her embarrassment. A bolder policy 
would, without doubt, have been wiser in dealing with so 
weak a character asDulcie’s; she put down his timorous- 
ness to a guilty conscience, and was secretly a little pro- 
voked that he allowed himself to be rebuffed so easily. 

She had by this time recovered from her hopeless love 
of Alwyne, and Noel no longer inspired her with any sense 
of repugnance. Her behavior was more the outcome of 
that tyrannous love of showing power which the weak love 
to exert when a victim is thrown in their way ; she bullied 
him because he was afraid of her; if he had been bold and 
resolute at first, she would probably have succumbed. But 
his weakness had the effect of making her strong. On 
Thursday the flirtation between her and Charlie grew to 
such magnitude that Noel was almost beside himself, and 
resolved to take Mary partly into his confidence. He had 
no difficulty in finding an opportunity of being alone with 
her. 

“I want you to do me a great favor,” he said, in im- 
ploring tones ; and a girl is never averse to a request of 
this sort from a man whom she regards with favorable 
eyes. But when he made it known to her that his urgent 
request regarded a private interview with Dulcie, a pang 
of disappointment shot through her breast. She was fond 
of Dulcie, but it was rather hard that all the men should 
be taken up with her, to the excl usion of the other girls, 
herself among them. She had a suspicion, too, that she 
might be standing in her brother’s light by furthering 
Noel’s wish, for she had not forgotten that Dulcie had 
been very much attracted to him the previous winter, al- 
though she was taking such a severely moral tone about 
him now. Still, this might be only a sign of pique. 

She hesitated; but Noel entreated her with so much 
eloquence that she gave way at last, and promised to do 
what she could. In her own mind she felt sure that he 
wanted to explain away the affair with the colonel’s wife 
in India. 

She arranged to take Dulcie next day at noon to a small 
room opening out of the entrance -hall, under pretense of 
showing her something. The room was rarely used, and 
they would be more secure against intrusion there than in 


244 


ONCE AGAIN 


any other part of the house. Noel spent the night in fram- 
ing speeches likely to overcome Dulcie’s obduracy; some- 
times they were tender, sometimes stern ; and even when 
the morning dawned he had not made up his mind what 
line it would be best to take. 

The next morning he lingered about until the appointed 
time, and about ten minutes after noon, as he was loitering 
in the hall, he heard the voices of the two young ladies, 
and, sheltering himself behind the large hat-stand where 
cloaks and wraps offered ample concealment, he presently 
saw them enter the room indicated by Mary. A moment 
later, he turned the handle of the door gently and went in. 
Mary gave him a cordial greeting, and the pair remained 
chatting for a few minutes, whilst Dulcie looked out of the 
window and preserved a strict neutrality. 

Suddenly Mary started up. 

“Mother is calling me,” she cried, and ran to the door. 
Dulcie, hearing this exclamation, turned and prepared to 
follow her friend, but Noel closed the door quietly and 
stood with his back to it. 

Dulcie, seeing herself caught a trap, blushed, and a 
sparkle of anger lighted up her blue eyes. 

Noel, though his pulses were hurrying violently, kept 
up a semblance of calmness. 

“ It is time, ’ ’ he said “ that v/e h^d some explanation. ’ ’ 

“ Let me pass, if you please,” exclaimed Dulcie, with an 
unusual display of hauteur, 

“No,” replied Noel, firmly; “not until I have said my 
say. You seem to forget, ’ ’ and here he, too, colored, ‘ ‘ that 
I am your husband, and that I cannot go on for an in- 
definite time being treated by you as though I had no 
claim on you.” 

Dulcie was a little frightened, but she kept up her dis- 
dainful mien. 

“I thought all that was settled last summer, and that you 
were not going to annoy me any more, ’ ’ she said. 

Great Heaven ! to be talked to in this way, as if he were 
nothing more than a troublesome suitor ! 

“You must allow me to remind you of the facts of the 
case,” remarked Noel, proudly, stung to the quick by her 
words. ‘ ‘ I met you here fifteen months ago, and loved you. 
I think you loved me too. If not, you would hardly have 
consented to marry me as you did.” 

‘ ‘ I was young and inexperienced, ’ ’ retorted Dulcie, ‘ ‘ and 
you entrapped me into marriage.” 

“ The arts I used were very simple ones,” returned Noel, 
bitterly. “ I loved you, and told you so. I asked you to 
marry me, and you consented.” 

“ How did I know that you were going to tell all sorts of 


ONCE AGAIN. 245 

falsehoods to the registrar, ’ ’ cried Dulcie, ‘ ‘ and to bring 
the most dreadful disgrace upon me?” 

“ Disgrace !” echoed Noel. “ I do not know that there is 
any disgrace in being the wife of an honest man who loves 
you, even though he may be as poor as I was. You knew 
that I should be compelled to make a mis-statement about 
your age, because I told you so, and asked you to try to 
make yourself look older. I concealed nothing from you ; 
we discussed everything fully beforehand.” 

“ But you knew that I was ignorant and inexperienced,” 
answered Dulcie. “ You have made my life one long mis- 
ery. Here I am tied down for life, living in a state of de- 
ception, afraid every hour of being discovered, and unable 
to receive the attentions of any other man, however much 
I may wish to.” 

Her words were like knives stabbing him to the heart. 
He turned from hot to cold. Her cruelty was more than 
he could bear. 

“ Do you admit,” he said, after a moment’s pause, unable 
to look at her, so l)itter did he feel — “do you admit that 
when you married me you loved me?” 

“ I suppose I thought I did,” she answered, cruelly. “ I 
was too young to know my own mind.” 

“And if,” continued Noel, not noticing the last part of 
her sentence, ‘ ‘ you loved me then, what have I done since 
to forfeit your love? Was it my fault that the accident 
happened which brought me to the verge of death?” 

“It was a judgment upon us for deceiving mamma, ” 
said Dulcie. 

Noel made an impatient gesture. 

“ It is childish to talk like that !” he said, almost angrily. 
“ You loved me, and married me. You are my wife, and 
I will not have my life ruined by your caprice. I was 
weak enough last summer to allow myself to be kicked out 
like a cur, but I will not again go through such a miserable 
time as that I spent in India, because I cared too much for 
you to force myself upon you.” 

He had given Dulcie her cue, and she was not slow to 
take advantage of it. 

“ I should think,” she said, scornfully, “you must have 
been very miserable. You were, at all events, not very 
long in consoling yourself. 

“ What do you mean?” cried Noel, amazed. He had no 
idea that Dulcie was aware of the episode in India. 

“You know very well what I mean,” she answered, 
with a toss of her head. “You pretended to be so dread- 
fully unhappy about me, and not a month after you were 
behaving in the most shameful manner with that horrid 
woman.” 


246 


0NC3 AGAIN. 


Noel was staggered by her words, and Dulcie took his 
momentary hesitation for a sign of guilt. 

‘‘Ido not know what you have heard,” he said, pres- 
ently, “ but I am in a position to explain everything and 
to put an end to any possible misunderstanding.” 

A momentary flash of happiness thrilled through his 
heart at the idea that perhaps she was jealous of him. 

“It will not be very easy to explain, I imagine,” she 
returned, coldly. “ Do not think to deceive me. I know 
everything. You went on in such a disgraceful way with 
your colonel’s wife that he threatened to get a divorce 
from her; and I am sure I don’t know why he did not.” 

“But Ido,” answered Noel, warmly. “Because there 
was not a shadow of foundation for his suspicions, and be- 
cause Mrs. Franklin is the best and purest little woman in 
the world.” 


“Eeally!” with increased disdain. “ I thought every 
one knew what she is!” 

“Any one who breathes a word against her is a liar!” 
cried Noel. 

“ Thank you,” retorted Dulcie, with flaming cheeks. 

“I am not speaking of you,” he answered, “because you 
cannot possibly know anything about her, and only repeat 
what has been told you by some scandalous person. It 
was you, indirectly, who were the cause of all the misun- 
derstanding. When I was so wretched, I used to talk to 
her about you, and she listened with the patience of an 
angel and gave me all the sympathy I could have claimed 
from a sister.” 

“Indeed!” cried Dulcie, far from being pacified by his 
words. “ I can imagine nothing that I should dislike so 
much as being discussed by a creature like that!” 

“ I will not allow even you to speak of her in that way !” 
cried Noel, angrily. ‘ ‘ You must accept my word for what 
she is, and I will not permit any one in my presence to as- 
perse the kindest and best little woman in the world.” 

“You had better go back to the kindest and best little 
woman in the world!” retorted Dulcie, her temper fully 
aroused by his championship of the detested wife of his 
colonel. 

“My conscience is perfectly clear,” said Noel, more qui- 
etly. “Since I met you, I have never loved, never had a 
thought for any woman but you. And I scarcely think 
reproaches come very well from you to me, after your 
confession that you loved Mr. Temple. ” 

“ You will be good enough,” said Dulcie, in tones tremu- 
lous from shame and mortification, “to leave Mr. Temple’s 
name out of the question. He is married, and is nothing to 
me.” 


ONCE AGAIN. 


247 

“ God knowG, ” replied Noel, more gently, “I wish noth- 
ing better than to forget that he ever existed. Dulcie,” 
going a step nearer to her, “ let us forget all the miserable 
time that is past, and begin the future afresh. I daresay I 
was very foolish and very wrong, but God is my witness 
I only sinned from love of you, and surely I have been 
punished. Darling, I don’t think you can be so unjust as 
to hate me without a cause, and, since our lives are bound 
together, why should we not be happy? I love you with 
all my soul. My own wife, do not be cruel to me!” 

He stretched out his arms to clasp her, but, with a 
frightened look, she eluded him. 

“No, no!” she cried. “ Things are much better as they 
are. I do not want to be your wife.” 

A sudden overmastering passion of anger and desire 
swept across Noel. Why should he submit any longer to 
be played the fool with by this girl? Why should he stand 
trembling before her, humbly beseeching as a favor what 
was his of right? Swayed by a violent impulse, he caught 
her suddenly in his arms, and, holding her by main force, 
held her face upturned to his, and kissed her passionately 
again and again. She uttered a shriek, and struggled to 
free herself from his embrace. At this moment, unseen by 
either of theui in their violent emotion, a form passed the 
window, paused a moment, then made a dash for the 
house. A moment later Charlie Fawcett rushed into the 
room, caught hold of Noel, and dashed him backward 
against the wall. 

“You blackguard!” he gasped, breathless with rage 
and exertion. ‘ ‘ How dare you insult a lady in this 
house!” 

And the two men stood glaring at each other, whilst Dub 
cie threw herself on a couch, weeping hysterically. 

“You will be good enough to leave this at once,” pro- 
ceeded Charlie, quite beside himself with passion, and 
taking up the role of champion of the outraged fair. 
“ This sort of thing may be all very well in India, but it 
won’t do here, I can tell you ! You shall answer to me for 
this!” 

“Oh!” said Noel, with surprising calmness, “ it is you 
I have to thank for spreading lying reports about me, 
is it?” 

“ At all events, there will be no lies when I tell how you 
have insulted a defenseless girl to-day,” cried Charlie. 

His words conjured up a terrible picture of shame and 
exposure before Dulcie’s mind. If this dreadful affair were 
known, everything would doubtless come out. Noel, to 
justify himself, would probably proclaim the truth, and 
she would die of shame. She checked her sobs, and stood 


248 ONCE AGAIN 

up, looking very white, but making a great effort to com- 
mand her voice. 

“ Mr. Fawcett,” she said, “ I beg of you not to let this 
go any further. For my sake, you must please not say a 
word of what has happened to any one. Promise me, oh ! 
promise me not to take any more notice of it.” 

Charlie was disagreeably surprised. He had just dis- 
tinguished himself in this heroic manner, had come to bring 
timely aid to a distressed damsel, and, instead of being 
grateful to him, she was insisting that nothing should be 
said on the subject. 

“My dear Miss Vernon,” he replied, “you cannot sup- 
pose that I will allow a man to behave in such a disgrace- 
ful way to a guest under my mother’s roof. I am sorry 
Trevor should so far have forgotten himself ; but I cannot 
permit him to remain here after what has happened. ’ ’ 

“ If Mr. Trevor leaves the house,” said Dulcie, with un- 
expected firmness, “I shall leave it too. And you could 
not do anything that would distress or annoy nie half so 
much as by giving the least hint of what has happened. If 
you do, you will not be my friend,” and, with some vehe- 
mence, “ I will never forgive you.” 

A cloud gathered on Charlie’s brow. There was no un- 
derstanding women. He had never thought very much of 
the sex, and now he thought still less. She had shrieked 
and struggled in Noel’s embrace, and all the time, he sup- 
posed, she liked it, and was quite annoyed with him for 
having come , in and stopped it. Well, that put an end, 
once and for all, to any thought he might have entertained 
of marrying her. 

He drew himself up, and said, stiffly : 

“I see I have made a mistake. I apologize for having 
come in at an awkward moment. It will be a lesson to me 
to be more discreet in future.” 

And he moved toward the door. 

“ Oh,” cried Dulcie, exceedingly distressed by his man- 
ner, “ pray do not take it in that way ! You do not under- 
stand. Mr. Trevor has behaved in a most unpardonable 
mannei ^ but do you not see that if he were to go away 
suddenly there would have to be explanations?” 

“It is perfectly simple,” said Noel. “ I can say that I 
have had a telegram and must go to London this afternoon. 
If,” coldly to Charlie, “ you will be good enough to order 
the dog-cart, I will get my things packed at once.” 

“No, no!” cried Dulcie, with unusual firmness; “you 
must not go. If you do, I will never see you again. Re- 
member ” — looking from one to the other of them — “if 
either of you let what has happened come out, you will be 


ONCE AGAIN. 249 

doing me the greatest injury, and I shall leave the house 
at once.” 

With that, she slipped past them out of the room, 
leaving both in a most awkward and uncomfortable situa- 
tion. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

For a moment neither Charlie nor Noel moved or spoke. 
Noel was the first to break the silence. He felt discon- 
certed and ashamed of himself for having given way to his 
passion. No man, husband or not, had, in his opinion, any 
right to use force to a woman. It was cowardly. Un- 
pleasant as it was to him to have to make an explanation, 
especially after Charlie’s rough handling of him, he felt 
bound to say something. 

” I am sorry,” he began, “ for what has happened.” 

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. 

“lam devilish sorry that I interfered,” he returned. 
“ It is evident the girl liked it, although she screamed and 
struggled. I shall know better another time.” 

But this view of the matter, and the slighting tone in 
which Charlie spoke, displeased Noel amazingly. 

“You do not understand,” he exclaimed. “It was I 
who was in the wrong, utterly in the wrong; and it is 
very good of Miss Vernon not to take the affair more seri- 
ously.” 

“Pooh!” said Charlie, lightly. “I believe women like 
to be treated in that sort of way, and only make a fuss to 
save their reputation for virtue. They are all much of a 
muchness. I never had any very great belief in them, 
though I must say I thought Dulcie Vernon was a different 
sort. ’ ’ 

His words were gall and wormwood to his hearer. Any 
impeachment of Dulcie was much more painful to him than 
the most severe condemnation of himself. 

‘‘You don’t understand,” he said again, warmly. “I 
was entirely to blame. But there are reasons, only I can- 
not tell them to you just at present, why my conduct was 
not so altogether unpardonable as it seems. ’ ’ 

“Not at all,” returned Charlie, provokingly. I don’t 
blame any man for kissing a pretty woman. I only wish 
to heaven I had not happened to come along at that mo- 
ment ! In future, whatever I may see and hear, a woman 
may shriek her life out before I stir a finger in her defense. 
I am sorry, old chap, I laid hands on you; she wasn’t 
worth it— none of them are. Come, shake hands and for- 
get what I said,” 


250 


ONCE AGAIN 


Noel felt it was no use arguing about the matter, since he 
could not tell the truth. So he shook hands, and said : 

“ You swear not to breathe a word of this?” 

“Oh, yes, I sw^ear,” returned Charlie, in a nonchalant 
manner. ‘ ‘ Hang the women ! I wish they were all at the 
bottom of the Red Sea.” 

Mary w^as very curious to know what Noel had had to 
say to Dulcie, and plied her with questions when they were 
alone together after luncheon. But Dulcie declared that 
their conversation had been of the most commonplace 
nature, and that there was nothing to tell. 

“ But did he propose to you?” asked Mary. “ I believe 
he did.” 

“Oh, dear, no! Certainly not. How absurd you are!” 
returned Dulcie. 

“ I don’t care. I know there is something between you, ’ ’ 
exclaimed Mary. ‘ ‘ And it is very ill-natured of you not 
to tell me, as I managed the interview^ for him.” 

“Very good of you, I am sure!” retorted Dulcie. “I 
think you might have consulted me first as to whether I 
should like it. As you seem to be so much in Mr. Trevor's 
confidence, you had better get him to tell you what hap- 
pened. ’ ’ 

Charlie was not an adept in dissimulation. He treated 
Dulcie with marked coldness, and pointedly avoided her. 

N His mother and sister imagined that he had proposed to 
and been refused by her, and Dulcie was extremely un 
comfortable at his behavior, fearing that it would give rise 
to suspicion and that something of the truth might leak 
out. Contrary to his habit, for he was a good-natured 
young fellow, he talked in a sarcastic and ironical manner, 
and w^as extremely- hard on the opposite sex when oppor- 
tunity offered. He could not feel the hearty friendship for 
Noel he had hitherto done, and, altogether, he looked for- 
ward to the end of the w^eek when the party would break 
up. He should be off to London, not caring to be thrown 
any more with Dulcie in the intimacy of their quiet home 
life. 

Dulcie, for her part, was much more gentle in her de- 
meanor to Noel than she had been before that little episode. 
Perhaps, now that he had shown a more masterful spirit 
than she had given him credit for, her respect for him was in- 
creased ; perhaps she felt that her present life was unsatis- 
factory, and that, after all, this state of affairs could not 
be prolonged indefinitely. 

Noel, ashamed of his violence, did not follow up his tem- 
porary advantage at once, but, fearing to displease her and 
to add to her embarrassment, behaved with simple courtesy 
toward her, and did not seek another interview, 


ONCE AGAIN. 


251 


The hunt ball was to take place on the Friday evening, 
and on Saturday his visit was to come to an end. Dulcie 
had consented to give him two waltzes with apparent will- 
ingness, and when she danced with him she no longer held 
herself in the stiff and freezing manner that she had done 
at the Grange. Poor Noel was so dreadfully in love w’ith 
her that all his timidity returned ; he had a mortal dread 
of frightening or angering her; but, as he met her eyes 
when the dance was concluding, and saw, or fancied he 
saw, in them a look that was not exactly one of aversion, 
his heart gave a sudden throb, and he felt that he could not 
and would not leave her without some hope to live on in 
the future. There were two or three couches placed in 
corridor where the light was not very strong — placed there, 
evidently, for the convenience of persons wishing to discuss 
matters of a more private nature than the ballroom gave 
opportunity for— and at the end of the last waltz Noel con 
ducted Dulcie to one of these, and she, although aware of 
his intention, did not offer any resistance. 

Perhaps it would have been wiser if Noel had refrained 
from alluding to that little scene of the previous day: but 
lovers are seldom wise, and Noel’s conscience had so pricked 
him for his offense that he felt in honor bound to apologize 
for his violence. 

“ I hope, ” he said, with great eagerness, the moment that 
he had seated himself beside her and had ascertained thut 
they were out of earshot— “ I hope you have forgiven me 
for what I did yesterday. I have felt the most awful brute 
ever since!” 

Dulcie blushed and averted her face : she would much 
rather not have been reminded of his indiscretion. 

“If you knew,” he went on, how awfully tantalizing it 
is to be near you, and to — to remember ” 

Here he paused, feeling the delicacy of the situation, and 
not daring to go on, for fear of offending or alarming her. 
She averted her face still more, to conceal the greater 
spread and deepening of her color. 

“ I do not think,” he went on, stealing a hand toward 
hers, ‘ ‘ that you hate me so very much ; it is not such a 
dreadful thought, is it, that your life is bound up with 
mine?” 

His voice was very low, but there was an eager ring of 
passion in it. 

“You say,” he proceeded, “that your life is full of 
anxiety and worry now • do you think it would be more 
so if I were always beside you to shield you from trouble 
and annoyance? Your life with your mother must be 
wretched ; why will you not come to me, when I am so 


253 ONCE AGAIN 

devoted to you? From my soul, I believe I could make 
you happy.'’ 

Dulcie’s hand was in his, and she allowed it to remain 
there after one ineffectual attempt to regain possession 
of it. 

“ I feel now,” Noel continued, as she made no answer to 
him, ‘ ‘ that my marrying you in the penniless condition 
which I was then in, was little short of madness; but now 
— I do not know if you have heard it — I am very much 
better off. Since my aunt’s death, I have nearly eight 
hundred a year. It is not what you have been used to, I 
know ; but I want so little myself— I have had to do with- 
out all my life — and everything shall be spent on you.” 

Dulcie had not heard of hii inheritance, and tne news 
was a relief. Now that no romance attached to her 
thoughts of Noel, she was no longer enamored of poverty. 
She knew, too, that she would come into money when she 
was twenty-one or married, and it occurred to her that 
the greatest blessing in life would be to get awa,y from her 
mother’s control and to be her own mistress. 

Whilst Noel, therefore, was pleading his love, practical 
considerations were making common cause with him in 
her mind. If he were only proposing to her, she would 
have been very much inclined to accept him. The thought 
that she was already his wife, and that he could claim her 
when he pleased, embarrassed and disconcerted her. Al- 
though she remained without speaking, the fact of her not 
refusing to listen to him gave Noel courage. 

“ I have been so patient,” he pleaded, clasping her hand 
closer, and drawing nearer to her, until his breath was 
almost on her cheek, “will you not let that move you? 
Last year, when you told me that you did not love me, 
when you threw yourself on my mercy, did I not go away 
and leave you? God knows that, if I could have put an 
end to my life then to make you happier, I would have 
done so. But now it is different, is it not— darling?” He 
uttered the endearing word almost timidly. “Say, at 
least, that you do not hate me.” 

. “No,” said Dulcie, speaking at last, though in a cooler 
tone than was pleasing to her listener, “ I do not hate you ; * 
but it is all so awkward, so perplexing. I do not see my 
way out of it. ’ ’ 

“How is it awkward?” urged Noel. “ Everything is 
simple enough. Why should you not join me in London 
next week? Your mother is out of the country. We 
need not consult her. You know she is quite willing to 
I'ecognize the marriage. We can go away together, and 
it- can be announced in the papers, and no date need be 
r.iciitioned,” 


ONCfl AGAIN. 


258 


As the whole delightful programme spread itself out be- 
fore his eyes, Noel grew keen and excited, and approached 
still nearer to his beloved. 

But she shrank from him with a terrified gesture, and 
cried, “No, no, no!” with immense emphasis. 

Noel’s face clouded over, and a look of discouragement 
passed over it. Was he never going to overcome her hesi- 
tation? Was he to go on® drifting month after month in 
this miserable uncertainty? 

“God knows,” he said, gloomily, “ what all this is to end 
in ! Any day I may be gazetted to my new regiment, and 
then I may have to leave you again and be no nearei* tu 
having things settled than 1 was a month ago. ’ ’ 

“I will not go to India,” exclaimed Dulcie, “nor any- 
where out of England. If— if — I think at all about it you 
must sell out. ’ ’ 

“ You were ready to go anywhere with me once!” he re- 
joined, with some bitterness. 

“ But I am not now,” she answered. “ I will not hear 
anything of the sort.” 

“You expect me to make every sacrifice,” he continued, 
for he was fond of his profession, “and even then you 
promise nothing. How do I know that, if I were to give 
up all that I have looked forward to in the way of ambition, 
you would not throw me over then?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, ’ ’ said Dulcie, piqued, ‘ ' of course, if you cannot 
trust me ” 

“May I trust you?” he cried, a sudden warmth break- 
ing over his heart, and he put his arm around her. “ Only 
tell me ” — eagerly, and with a swift return of hope to his 
face — “that you will be mine really, and I will send in 
my papers to-morrow.” 

“ There is no hurry,” replied Dulcie, v/hose object was 
delay, not to precipitate matters. 

“But there is hurry!” he cried, hotly. “ I must, I will 
know, here and now, what I have to go upon. What do 
you propose? What do you wish?” 

“ Nothing can be done whilst I am here, at all events,” 
returned Dulcie ; ‘ ‘ and my visit is to last at least another 
fortnight.” 

“ Why not?” urged Noel. “ What is the use of delaying 
a fortnight?” 

‘ ‘ Mamma will not hear of anything except our being mar- 
ried in church, ’ ’ she said. 

Noel was furious. 

“That is nonsense!” he said, sharply. “We are mar- 
ried. All the bishops in England cannot marry us any 
more. It is simply a farce. ’ ’ 

'* Then you do not care about my feelings,” returned 


m 


ONCE again: 


Dtilcie. “You do not mind my being talked about, and 
] )eople saying all sorts of horrid things of me. That is just 
like a man’s selfishness.” 

Noel was touched, for if there was one epithet he did not 
deserve, it was that one, selfish. 

“ It shall be as you wish, then, my darling,” he said: 
“ your happiness and your good name are dearer to me 
than any other consideration irT the world. But, surely, if 
I agree to this marriage in church” (rather dismally) 
“ there need not be any great delay !” 

“Oh, but there must be!” cried Dulcie, perversely. “I 
do not want a syllable to be known by the Fawcetts until 
I have left the Grange. Then you might come and see me 
at my aunt’s, and I can pretend that you proposed to me 
there. Then I must write to mamma ; and she will not be 
home for another month. Then there is my trousseau to 
be got. We cannot certainly be married for three months 
from this time.” 

Noel jumped to his feet with a sudden access of passion. 

“I will not wait three months!” he cried. “I would 
rather give you up altogether ! You treat me as if I were 
a contemptible fool, who will submit to any humiliation, 
any caprice. If I choose, I can take you away with me to- 
night; no living soul can hinder me; and, because I have 
behaved generously to you all along, my only reward is to 
be made a fool of. I have done! I give up! Shall I,” 
with extreme coldness, “take you back to Mrs. Fawcett?” 

He had struck the right chord at last. Any one who 
chose to be firm and masterful with Dulcie was certain to 
conquer. 

She gazed up at him with a timid, appealing look, and 
tears came into her pretty blue eyes. 

” Noel,” she murmured, “ do not be unkind to me!” 

It was the first time for fifteen months that she had called 
him by his name, and it sent a thrill to his heart. 

“Come and sit down by me again,” she said, motioning 
him to a seat beside her. ‘ ‘ Let us talk it over, and tell me 
what you wish.” 

He obeyed her, and, though his heart was melted by her 
look of distress, he commanded himself sufficiently to pre- 
serve a cold and stern demeanor, seeing that this behavior 
was the most calculated to bring her to submission. 

He did not speak, and, after waiting a moment and play- 
ing nervously with her fan, she said, looking down : 

“ What do you wish me to do?” 

Noel answered with great firmness and promptitude: 

“ I wish you to tell the Fawcetts that I proposed to you 
to-night, and that you accepted me. I wish you to writ(' 
to your mother to-morrow ; and I insist ”~this was a bold 


UKCE again. 


255 


Stroke tor Noel— “ that the ceremony shall be performed in 
a month from the present time.” 

” But mamma will not be' hack,” pleaded Dulcie. 

'‘Very well,” returned Noel, resolutely; “then we will 
go to her and be married abroad. You write to her to- 
morrow, and I will write too.” 

So Dulcie yielded, and promised to do what he desired. 

At that moment the corridor was empty, for the favorite 
waltz of the day was being played, and every one who was 
not dancing was standing near the doors of the ballroom to 
listen to it. 

Noel drew his wife gently toward him and pressed his 
lips to hers. This time she did not struggle or resist. A 
minute later, Noel, looking radiant, and Dulcie, shy and 
prettier than ever, with a rosebud blooming in each cheek, 
swelled the throng that was listening appreciatively to the 
delicious strains of the waltz. 

“Shall we not dance it?” he whispered; and, Dulcie as- 
senting, he put liis arm triumphantly round her slender 
waist and bore her away among the dancers. 

At last he felt as though she belonged to him ; it was 
almost the happiest moment of his life. 

Nor was Dulcie, on her part, tormented by the displeas- 
ing sensations of repugnance and disgust. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Reine Chandos, whom we must retrace our steps some 
three months to seek, felt great sympathy for her aunt, al- 
though she was sorry too for Dulcie. Mrs. Vernon, it could 
not be denied, had been an admirable mother, and Dulcie 
had lacked nothing that the most tender care and the deep- 
est interest in her welfare could supply. She was not of an 
affectionate or demonstrative nature, but until the time 
when Dulcie had so cruelly surprised and disappointed her 
she had treated her with uniform kindness and indulgence, 
giving her every pleasure and surrounding her with luxury. 
She had been most generous in gifts, and few girls in Dul- 
cie ’s position were as daintily appareled or had so many 
pretty knick-knacks. There was nothing mean about Mrs. 
Vernon, and, although an excellent manager, no one in her 
household had any cause to complain of any want of liber- 
ality on her part. She was extremely considerate to de- 
pendents, and only exacting in respect of obedience to her 
very reasonable orders. 

Reine was thoroughly aware of her aunt’s good quali- 
ties, her honorable instincts and love of justice; she found 
no fault with the somewhat autocratic disposition which 
did not manifest itself capriciously. She and Mrs. Vernon 


256 


ONCE again. 


had always been on the best of terms, and Heine had ever^’ 
reason to remember gratefully the kindness and support 
her aunt had given her at a time when she sorely needed 
it. 

In November, when she called in Grosvenor Street dur- 
ing a flying visit to London, she was shocked to see how 
ill and harassed Mrs. Vernon looked. She had a very bad 
cough, and was in a state pf depression extremely unusual 
to her. 

“Dear Heine,” she said, reduced to the unwonted weak- 
ness of tears, “I am so wretched that I find life unbear- 
able. If I could only get away abroad! I cannot tell 
you how I long for the South— for warmth, brightness, 
sunshine; but I could not go with Dulcie, who seems to 
jar upon my every nerve, and I really do not feel equal to 
going alone. I know how full of engagements you always 
are, but,” looking wistfully at her, “ if you could manage 
to go with me and stay, if only for a week or two, I should 
be so grateful to you.” 

Heine decided in a moment. She had a grateful heart; 
here was an opportunity of repaying in part the kindness 
of which she had always entertained a tender recollection. 

“Certainly, dear aunt, I will go,” she said, brightly. 
“The change will do you all the good in the world, and I 
shall have no difficulty in making a little change in my 
plans.” 

A week later, the two ladies were in Cannes, and Mrs. 
Vernon was a different woman, having left her cares be- 
hind, and thoroughly enjoying the congenial companionship 
of Heine, who was never so charming as when she had an 
invalid to look after and divert. In a month she was able 
to leave Mrs. Vernon, who, though she missed her greatly, 
had now several friends and acquaintances in Cannes aikt 
was comparatively independent of a companion. 

At the end of January Heine returned to England, and 
joined Mrs. Herbert, who was wintering this year at 
Bournemouth, having conceived a momentary distaste for 
the Continent. 

The friends had spent ten days of fine weather delight • 
fully together, agreeing that one’s own country was the 
only place to be thoroughly comfortable in, when, one 
morning, Mrs. Herbert received a letter w hich caused her 
brows to pucker into a frown and the corners of her mouth 
to droop ominously. It was her habit not to open her let 
ters until breakfast, when she declared they interested her 
much more than at any other time, and she could, besides, 
share her news and discuss her correspondence with her 
companions. 


ONCE AGAIN, 257 

“ What is the matter, Mia?” inquired Reine, who hap- 
pened at this moment to glance toward her friend. 

“Something that concerns you; something extremely 
tiresome and inconvenient. Here, my love, read aad de- 
cide 1” And she handed the letter across the table. 

Heine exhibited equal marks of concern as she read ; 

“My dear Mrs. Herbert, — I reaily do not know how to 
address you on the subject which at this moment weighs 
very heavily on my heart. My poor little Lilah is seriously 
ill and suifering the most acute pain from rheumatic fever. 
It is piteous to be with her and to witness her agony. For 
the last two days she has done nothing but moan and cry 
for Mrs. Chandos. The poor darling has taken it into her 
head that if she could be mesmerized as last September, the 
pain would leave her, and she does nothing but implore us 
to send for Mrs. Chandos, who she is sure would come to 
her if she knew what torture she was suffering. But, in 
the first place, I do not know where Mrs. Chandos is; and, 
in the second, how could I ask such a great thing of a 
lady to whom we are all but strangers? I know how kind 
she is ; but we have no right to trespass on her goodness 
by asking such a favor of her. It is so heart-rending, how- 
ever, to hear my poor child’s cries for her that I can no 
longer refuse to write and, at all events, endeavor to learn 
where Mrs. Chandos is. Will you tell me what you advise? 
I cannot bear to trouble you, but I think you will let my 
extreme anxiety for my suffering little daughter plead my 
excuse. Very sincerely yours, 

“C. Chester.” 

Mrs. Herbert had frowned because she saw an end to the 
very agreeable time she was spending in Heine’s society. 
She knew her friend well enough to feel tolerably sure 
that, however inconvenient, she would scarcely be able to 
resist such an appeal, or to throw away a chance of play- 
ing the part of ministering angel which was so peculiarly 
grateful to her sympathetic temperament. Heme’s face, 
as she laid the letter down, betrayed the keenest perplex- 
ity and trouble. Under ordinary circumstances she would 
not have hesitated for a moment ; but her memory recalled 
painfully the sentiments which Mrs. Chester had expressed 
about her, and she declared to herself that she did not wish 
to be thrown into contact with Sir John after the declara- 
tion which he had made her in the autumn. Still, the 
thought of the poor little sufferer was bound to triumph, 
and her heai't was giving her the most decided orders as to 
her duty. 

“Weil?” said Mrs, Herbert, in a dreary tone, foreshad 


35S 


ONCE AGAIN 


owing her conviction that she was to lose her beloved com- 
panion. 

‘ ‘ There is nothing, ’ ’ exclaimed Eeine, with energy, 
“ that I could possibly dislike so much as going to stay iit 
the Hall.” 

“ But you will go all the same,” remarked Mrs. Herbert, 
in a forlorn tone. The goodness of her own heart pre- 
vented her from throwing any obstacle in the way, al- 
though it was such a dreadful sacrifice to give up Eeine’s 
delightful company. 

“ What shall I do, Mia? I believe it is nothing but fancy 
on the poor child’s part: I do not suppose I can do her one 
ctom of good. Yet I cannot bear the thought of disap 
{pointing her if she has a craving for me. It is only a sick 
fancy; but sometimes those fancies of disordered mind 
have an enormous effect on the disease and its cure.” 

“Of course you must go,” returned Mrs. Herbert, with 
the air of a martyr. 

‘ ‘ I cannot bear to leave you, Mia, and there is no place 
in the world to which I so much dislike the idea of going. 
Do you think I have forgotten Mrs. Chester’s opinion of 
me?” 


“That is nonsense,” replied Mrs. Herbert. “And she 
has changed it long ago. Sir John told me as much.” 

“ Suppose I go for a couple of days!” 

“I know what that nieans,” returned Mrs. Herbert, 
drearily. “Oh, my dear, of course you must go, and I 
must be left lamenting. I have been so happy the last few 
days that I quite expected something to happen ; and here 
it is!” 


“Mia,” observed Eeine, after a minute’s reflection, 
“write and say that I am with you; that, if Mrs. Chester 
really thinks I can be use, I will go for a couple of days, 
but that in a case of rheumatism I fear my mesmeric 
powers will be of no avail. Ask her to telegraph, if she is 
in earnest in desiring my presence, and I will go.” 

“ You had better have your things packed,” remarked 
Mrs. Herbert, dryly. ‘ ‘ There can be no doubt as to what 
the answer will be.” 

The two friends spent a melancholjr day, regretting by 
anticipation the loss of each other’s society. Eeine insisted 
that she would not remain more than three days at the 
Hall; but Mrs. Herbert shook her head. 

“ It will be nearer three weeks before I see you again,” 
she said, disconsolately. “I shall telegraph to Jessie to 
come down to-morrow.” 

“Wait until you know that I am going,” suggested 
Reine. 

“ I know it already,” replied Mrs. Herbert, dolefully 


ONCE AGAIN, 


259 


The next day, indeed, saw Eeine en route for the Hall. 
As much of gratitude as could be compressed into a tele- 
gram arrived with all possible speed, and Mrs: Chandos— 
whose preparations were iUready made— started at once. 
It was a long and tedious journey, and, if there was one 
thing Eeine detested more than another, it was railway - 
traveling. 

At a quarter to seven she arrived at the C station, 

where Sir John was awaiting her with the brougham. As 
he helped her to alight from the carriage, he could scarcely 
find words to welcome her. His immense gratitude and his 
joy at seeing her again choked him. But the look in his 
eyes, the fervent pressure of his hand, were eloquent enough. 
Mrs. Chester came to the hall door, and embraced Eeme 
with the tears running down her cheeks. 

“How good, how good of you!” she cried, bursting into 
tears and sobs. 

Tired though she was, Eeine insisted on going at once 
to the room of the little sufferer. When she saw the joy- 
ous light that broke over the poor, wan face at sight of 
her, she felt repaid for the trouble, mental and physical, it 
had cost her to come. Who could have imagined a year 
ago such a welcome being accorded to Mrs. Chandos at the 
Hall? Life is, indeed, full of surprises. 

Mrs. Herbert had been quite correct in her conviction 
that some considerable time would elapse before she again 
saw her friend. Lilah began to get better from the mo- 
ment that Eeine entered the house, and any talk of her 
leaving sent the poor child into paroxysms of distress. 

Eeine insisted on spending nearly the whole day at 
Lilah ’s bedside. She was the only person who could do 
anything to her satisfaction. The touch of every one else 
she declared was rough and hurt her, and she would shrink 
and cry if any one else attempted to lay a finger on her, 
even her mother. 

Mrs. Chester was divided between gratitude and distress. 
She could not endure to think of the trouble and irksome- 
ness Eeine must suffer by constant attendance on the ex- 
acting invalid, and yet she was so intensely thankful to 
see the great alleviation that Mrs. Chandos brought to 
Lilah’ s suffering. Never did balm fall so sweetly upon a 
man’s heart as his mother’s praise of Eeine did on Jack; 
he would have liked to say a thousand times a day, if it 
had not been a womanisli trick, unworthy of a man: “ Did 
I not tell you so? You see how right I was!” 

Mrs. Chester was indeed forced to confess to herself how 
utterly different a woman Eeine was from what she had 
imagined. The two ladies had many opportunities of chat- 
ting together, and never did Eeine let fall a single word 


2m 


ONCE AGAIN. 


or the evidence of a thought which Mrs. Chester could dis- 
approve. It was her custom to read prayei-s to Lilah 
morning and evening, and Mrs. Chandos ^vas invariably 
present, joining in them with unfeigned revei'ence and de--^ 
voutness. One evening Mrs. Chester was moved to say to 
her son : 

“ I do not for an instant believe that Mrs. Chandos is 
an atheist or anything of the sort. She is certainly no hyp- 
ocrite ; and it would be impossible for her to join in our 
prayers as she does unless she were at heart religious. 
Some one may have perverted her mind for the time, she 
may have come under some evil influence, but it has not 
been lasting, and the dear creature will, I know, in God’s 
own good time, be brought back to the fold.” 

And the excellent lady wept as she spoke, for her heart 
yearned over Reine, and she was beginning to think her 
one of the best and noblest women iii the world. 

“As for that poetry, I cannot understand it. I try to 
forget that she ever wrote it. Some day she will, I am 
sure, regret it. ” 

Then Jack told his mother what had passed between 
him and Reine on the subject, and Mrs. Chester rejoiced 
greatly. She felt now that she could look with equanimity 
on the woman she had once feared and dreaded occupying 
the place she herself had held so long at the Hall. But she 
saw nothing in Reine’ s manner to her son to indicate that 
she entertained anything more for him than a merely 
friendly feeling. 

The only recreation which Reine permitted herself was 
a drive in the afternoon in Jack’s phaeton, and this she 
thoroughly enjoyed. 

She had become sincerely fond of him, and his presence 
was now entirely pleasing to her. His good nature and 
sweet temper gave her an agreeable sense of repose, and 
during the time that she was in attendance on Lilah 
a chivalrous feeling prevented him from breathing a 
"vord of his love to her, lest it should vex or embarrass 
her. 

The three weeks which Mrs. Herbert had laid down as 
the time of Reine’ s stay at the Hall were drawing to a close, 
and a letter came from Bournemouth which contained the 
paragraph : 

“ Do not forget, my love, that I have some little claim on 
you, and that I am pining for you. Miss Lilah has, I 
think, had her full share of your attentions, and must be 
reminded that she is not the only person in the world. Bo 
do not desert me an^ longer, but reward my uncomplain- 
ing patience, and come back to me as soon as possible. ’ ’ 


om:k agafn'. 


261 


Eeine felt it her diit}^ as well as her pleasure, to comply 
with her friend's wish. Contrary to all anticipation, she 
had spent a very happy time at the Hall, and this made 
her feel the duty of returning to Mrs. Herbert more forci- 
bly than she would have done under less favorable circum- 
stances. She had conceived a great regard and affection 
for Mrs. Chester, who treated her like a beloved daughter; 
she was fond of Lilah, who, though exacting, was never 
petulant to her even in her severest paroxysms of suffer- 
ing; and as for Jack— well, she was forced to confess to 
herself that she cared for him more than she had believed 
herself capable of caring for any man. The idea of becom- 
ing his wife was not so absolutely ridiculous and prepos- 
terous in her eyes as it had formerly been. 

The time of her departure was fixed, and mourning, lam- 
entation, and woe reigned at the Hall. The morning before 
her departure. Jack sought his mother. 

“ Mother!” he said. 

“ Yes, my dear,” she replied. 

But, somehow. Jack seemed as though he could not get 
any further. His mother went to him and laid a hand af- 
fectionately upon his arm. 

“ Is it something about Reine?” she said. 

“Yes,” he answered. ”Oh, mother, I feel I cannot live 
without her. If she won’t marry me, I think it will break 
my heart!” 

“ You can but ask her,” said his mother, gently. 

“And you?” he said, looking wistfully at her. “You 
know now Avhat an angel she is. You— oh, mother! you 
won’t let there be anything on your part to ” 

‘ ‘ My dear boy, ’ ’ and she kissed him, with tears in her 
eyes, ‘ ‘ she shall be like my own daughter. ’ ’ 

“God bless yon, dear mother!” he cried, and hurried 
from the room to conceal the agitation that mastered him. 

By some not very Machiavelian art, a private interview 
between him and Reine was arranged that very afternoon, 
and, at the conclusion of it. Jack, with the most triumphant 
look of happiness that ever illumined a lover’s counte 
nance, led Reine, who wore a very pretty and beaming air 
of embarrassment, to his mother's presence. 

“ Mother,” he said, ” I bring you your daughter, x^^ndl 
am the very happiest fellow in all the world.” 

“God bless you, my dear, dear daughter!” cried Mrs. 
Chester, pressing Reine to her heart. 

“ x\nd,” said Reine, softly, “ you are no longer afraid of 
my having a bad influence over him?’‘ 

‘ ‘ I am quite sure, ’ ’ answered Mrs„ Chester, warmly, ‘ ‘ tha t 
your influence will be good in every way., God bless you 
ho'h my dear children!” 


262 


ONCE AGAIN 


Jack accompanied Eeine to Bournemouth the, next day, 
and it will be hardly necessary to say with what cordiality 
Mrs. Herbert gave her blessing to the pair. 

“ Are you quite sure, Mia,” asked Reine, playfully, “that 
you are not a little bit jealous?” 

“I shall try to get over it,” answered Mrs. Herbert, 
smiling. 

Jack squeezed her fingers with an energy that was a little 
trying; but she bore it like the Spartan boy. 

“ I shall never forget what I owe to you,” he cried. 

” I like a grateful heart,” answered Mrs. Herbert, smil- 
ing heroically. “ Who says one cannot enjoy vicariously? 
I feel almost as happy as though I were going to marry you 
myself!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Mrs. Vernon was leading a very pleasant life at Cannes. 
Several of her friends were there, and she had also 
made some agreeable acquaintances, and enjoyed a con- 
siderable popularity. She was a clever, well-bred woman, 
with a large fund of amusing small talk, and a thorough 
acquaintance with every topic of interest of the day. She 
was always ready to join in any party of pleasure, or to 
contribute her share Jo the general amusement. In this, a 
well -filled purse and liberal inclinations gave her every 
aid. 

It was charming to hear her falk about her dear girl, 
and the trial that this enforced separation was to her ; 
but she wished, of all things, that her child should be 
happy, and Dulcie had a great disinclination for foreign 
(‘oimtries and life. She was paying delightful visits in 
England, and seemed perfectly happy. A mother must 
always make sacrifices; and her own health had forbidden 
her to face the trying English winter. And here Mrs. 
Veruoii coughed the little cough that was scarcely more 
than an affectat^i. 

She had givei^p disquieting herself about Dulcie’s fut- 
ure, and was wise' enough not to allow a matter to worry 
her which she could not control. It was with extreme sur 
prise that, one n><6^ing, she received by the same post the 
two following letters. She first opened the one in a hand 
unfamiliar to her, although she fancied Wcie had seen it h-v 
fore, and, turning to the end, reajd^ with a slight increabe 
of the action of her heart, the name ” Noel "Trevor.” 

She then went steadily through it from beginning to end, 
and when she had again come to the signeture she laid it 
down ^yiih a sigh of relief 


ONCE AGAIN. 


263 


“Dear Mrs. Vernon” (it ran), — “Dulcie has promised 
to write you by the same post, telling you what we have 
agreed upon ; and I hope you will be kind enough not to 
put any obstacles in the way of my happiness. I have been 
staying with the Fawcetts, and we had an explanation. 
Of course, as I am really married legally to her, there is no 
occasion for any further ceremony ; but, as Dulcie wishes 
it, and says you wish it, I am ready to sacrifice my own 
feelings. All I ask is that there may not be any unneces- 
sary delay. I do not wish to refer to the very painful po- 
sition I have been in so long now, nor to what I have suf- 
fered; but I hope you will not forget these in answering 
my letter. If I acted wrongly toward you, my punish- 
ment has been very severe. I have come into seven hun- 
dred a year, which an aunt left me a few months ago, 
and will settle every penny of it on Dulcie ; and I hope I 
need not say that whatever she has of her own I wish to 
be settled on her. I should indeed be sorry if any one 
could think I want anything of her but herself, ’ ’ proceeded 
the letter. 

‘ ‘ He is too good for her, ’ ’ thought the affectionate mother. 
‘ ‘ Poor young man ! Well, no doubt his eyes will be opened 
soon enough.” 

“ I would on no account ask you to come to England at 
this trying time of the year, as I hear your health is deli- 
cate ; but would you have any objection to Dulcie going to 
you with some lady friend and to our being married abroad? 
I am going to send in my papers at once, as she wishes it, 
and shall soon be a free agent. Will you please let me 
know the name and address of your lawyer, that mine 
may see him and arrange about the settlements? Hoping 
to hear from you with as little delay as possible, believe 
me, dear Mrs. Vernon, ' Yours most truly, 

“Noel Trevor.” 

The perusal of this letter gave Mrs. Vernon unbounded 
satisfaction. She had long ceased to feel vain regrets about 
the impossibility of Dulcie making a good marriage, and 
she looked forward with intense relief to the time when 
her own responsibility would cease and she would no 
longer have the fear of discovery and disgrace before her 
eyes. For she felt no confidence that her daughter might 
not some day bring dire trouble upon her by some act of 
folly. 

“ Now,” she said, putting down Noel’s letter and taking 
up Dulcie’s, “ let me see what she says about it.” 

“ My DEAR Mamma ” (wrote Dulcie),— -“ Noel is going to 
write and tell you eve)ything, so I suppose there is no oc- 
casion for me to write it too. I suppose ” (Dulcie could 


264 


ONCE AGAIN 


never be trained to avoid tautology) “it is better that as 
we are to be married the world should know it, but I don't 
see any particular occasion for hurry, and perhaps you 
would write and tell him so, as he did not seem to like my 
saying it. I have told the Fawcetts that he proposed last 
night and that I accepted him. I suppose he has told you 
that he has come into some money. Had I not better go 
back to Anna next week and see about getting my things? 
Mary Fawcett wants to be bridemaid. Do you think I had 
better have any bridemaids? and, if so, horn shall I ask? 
Please write by return. 

“ Your affectionate daughter, 

“ Dulcie Vernon.” 

“ I do not believe the girl has an atom of heart,” said 
Mrs. Vernon to herself, with considerable irritation. “ I 
shall certainly have as little delay as possible, or she mav 
change her mind again. I had better go home at once. ’ ’ 
And she thought with some regret of the pleasant life she 
would have to quit, and of the parties in prospect for the 
following week. She was, however, not a woman to allow 
pleasure to interfere with business, and immediately set 
about making preparations for her return. Next winter 
and every winter following she would, please Heaven, be 
free to make her arrangements independently of any and 
every other person. The court of chancery had to be ap 
prised of Dulcie 's engagement— law-matters always took a 
long time — and she could not trust Dulcie to get her trous 
seau alone. 

All things considered, it would be far better for her to 
return to England at once. She dispatched a gracious let 
ter to Noel, and a semi-affectionate one to her daughter, 
bidding her meet her in Grosvenor Street on the third day 
following. She then communicated to the astonished 
Morton that Miss Dulcie was going to marry Mr. Trevor in 
a few weeks' time, and bade her pack at once for their 
journey on the morrow. 

Morton would have given up a quarter’s wages to be al- 
lowed to ask and hear all particulars ; but there was some- 
thing in her lady’s manner that deterred her from presum- 
ing to utter a question. 

She was sure she was very glad, she said ; but, without 
noticing her remark, Mrs. Vernon at once plunged into the 
details of packing. 

To her friends and acquaintances she contented herself 
with a smiling hint that she had received some very inter- 
esting news from home which necessitated her presence, 
and which she hoped to tell them more abont at no very 
distant date. 


ON(^K again. 


Even now she dared not be anything more than ambigu- 
ous, as Heaven alone knew what Dulcie might take it into 
her head to do before the event really came off. 

When Noel read her gracious letter, his heart filled with 
joy and gratitude, and he forgave her on the spot for her 
former coldness and harshness. She apprised him of her 
intention to go to London at once, and invited him to 
luncheon the day following her return. She saw no 
reason for delay, she wrote ; and, if legal matters could be 
settled in so short a time, everything else could well be 
arranged. 

As she traveled homeward, she carefully cut and dried 
her plans. She would allow every one to believe that she 
was pleased with the marriage, and that she thought much 
more of her daughter’s happiness than of wealth or social 
distinction. She would speak in the highest terms of her 
intended son-in-law, and would give it as her opinion that 
long engagements were a mistake, and that, when two 
young people had thoroughly made up their minds about 
each other, delay was unnecessary and inconvenient to 
every one. She would hint that the attachment was not 
altogether a new affair, but that before Noel came into his 
aunt’s money she had not thought it prudent to sanction 
the marriage. She even settled upon the friends whom 
she would ask to the wedding, the trousseau she Avould buy, 
and the four bridemaids who should be invited to attend 
Dulcie to the altar. Nothing Avas forgotten in her calcula- 
tions, not even the wedding-ring lying in her dressing-case, 
which she decided should not do duty again, as it had 
brought such ill luck before. 

Dulcie was in Grosvenor Street, awaiting her mother’s 
arrival. She had seen Noel in the afternoon; indeed, he 
had met her at the station and conveyed her home, and 
had taken occasion to present her Avith a very handsome 
half-hoop of diamonds, at Avhich she expressed a lively 
sense of gratification. He was so radiantly happy, yet so 
delicate and discreet in his behavior to her, that Dulcie, 
who had a gentle and amiable nature, though she was weak 
of will and purpose, began once again to experience some- 
thing of the feeling of old days for him. She forgot Al- 
wyne, or, if she thought of him, felt only a smothered re- 
sentment against him for his cruel treatment of her and 
his ostentatious attentions to his wife. He had never really 
loved her, she said to herself, but Noel’s devotion had been 
unswerving from the first moment. He had succeeded in 
convincing her that his intimacy with the colonel’s AAufe 
had been simply the outcome of his love for her, as that 
dear, kind little woman, to whom he should forever be 
grateful, and whom he hoped (after the absurd and short- 


ONCE AGAIN 




a rose-bud, stepped into the carriage, and shoes and rice 
were showered literally upon them as they dro\ e off. 

Noel’s heart thrilled with triumph. He forgot his suffer- 
ings ; nay, he would not have had anything different if he 
could. What a right good world it was ! 

‘‘At last, my own darling, at last!” he cried, with a 
ringing voice. 

And Dulcie answered, smiling : 

” This is better, is it not, than last time?” 


[THE END.l 




■aany a famil^r has been raised by the geaniae philantropl^ c4 
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1W9 Astoria 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Prairies 1C 

308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roo.st and Miscellanies 10 

BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A Modern Midas 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

531 Poems 25 


LOVKLL’s LIJ5UAKT. 


BY EDWARD KELLOGG 


111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

1G6 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 


BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse- Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each. .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 


39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 Mark Seaworth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

335 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

338 The M:dshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

725 Dr. Wiliner’s Love 25 

741 Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorrequer 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . . 20 

BY H. W LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory O’ More 20 

849 Handy Andy 10 

BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 (lideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

.jets and Flashes 20 * 


BY E. LYNN LYNTON 


lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

The Coming Race — - 10 

Leila .10 

Ernest Maltravers 20 

The Haunted House 10 

Alice ; A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

A Strange Story 20 

Last Days of Pompeii 20 

Zanoni 20 

Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each.. 15 

Paul Clifford 20 

Lady of Lyons .10 

Money 10 

Richelieu 1C 

Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

Pelham 20 

Eugene Aranv.. 20 

The Disowned 20 

Kenelm Chillingly 20 

What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

Devereux 20 

The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

Lucretia . 20 

Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 

The Parisians, 2 Parts, each 20 

My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

Godolphin 20 

Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY C. MARLETT 

The Old Mam’selle’s Secret 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

Tales of the French Revolution 15 

Loom and Lugger 20 

Berkeley the Banker 20 

Homes Abroad 15 

For Each and For All 15 

Hill and Valley 15 

The Charmed Sea 15 

Life in the Wilds 15 

Sowers not Reapers 15 

Glen of the Echoes 15 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

BY W. S. MAYO 

The Berber 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

Duke of Kandos 20 

The Two Du' hesses 20 


BY j. H. McCarthy 

.A.u Outline of Irish History 16 


275 

11 

12 

31 

32 

45 

55 

59 

81 

84 

117 

121 

128 

152 

160 

176 

204 

222 

240 

245 

247 

250 

253 

255 

259 

271 

276 

289 

294 

317 

333 

771 

212 

tm 

354 

357 

358 

363 

372 

379 

388 

395 

400 

165 

76 

46 

60 

115 


lovkll’s 

BY JTTSTIN McCAETHY, M.P. 


278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. I. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEKEDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradise Lost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY THOMAS MOOKE 

416 LallaRookh V 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon lO 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MDIR 

312 Golden? Girls 20 

BY MAX MDLLER 

130 India ; What Can It Teach Us ? .... 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 


BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 

BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible . . 20 


BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim lO 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 N octes Ambrosianse 30 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 


LIBRARY. 


BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary lU 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

831 The Son cf his Father 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each 20 

387 Princess N apraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 

BY MAX O'RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin ' 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

^9 Luck of the Darrells 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 


438 The Assignation and Other Tales . . 15 
447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the IModern Scien- 


tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 


Lovell’s libuary. 


BY CHAELES EEADE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret . . .20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 


BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 


10 Freckles 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 


..2U 

..20 


BY “ RITA ” 


550 Dame Durden. . . 
599 Like Diun's Kiss 


.20 

.20 


BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 


,20 


BY DAITTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems 


.20 


123 

399 

a33 

834 

835 

836 


816 


BY W. CLARX EOSSELL 

A. Sea Queen 20 

John Holds worth 2*1 

A Voyage to the (Jape 20 

J ack’s Courtsh ip 20 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

On tiic Fo’k’sio Head 20 


BY DORA RUSSELL 

The Broken Seal 


.20 


BY GEORGE SAND 

135 The Tower of Percemont 


.20 


BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Aiden 15 

BY REGIITA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of th.e Abbey CO 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

a37 Alarked “In Haste ” 20 


BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY JOHN RUSKIN 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Architecture. .20 

537 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

542 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

565 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 “ Vol. II .20 

577 “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

589 “ “ Vol. IV 25 

608 “ “ Vol. V 25 

598 King of the Golden Biver 10 

623 Unto this Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

(i37 “ A Joy Forever ” 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on Art 15 

677 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark's Rest .15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathcr.s Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Val d’Arno 15 

688 Love's Meiiiie ... 15 

707 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Part IT 30 

713 “ “ Part HI.. 30 

714 “ “ Part IV 30 


BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

Social Etiquette 15 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

Picciola .Id 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

Schiller’s Poems 2G 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 


341 


145 

359 

489 

490 

492 

493 
495 
499 
502 
504 
509 
515 
536 
544 
551 
557 
f69 
575 
581 
586 
.595 

i 605 
i 607 
609 

i 620 

' 625 
I 629 
63,2 
I 635 
638 
641 


22 


BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 

Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, each . . . 15 

Lady of the Lake, with Notes . .20 

Bride of Lammermoor 20 

Black Dwarf .' 1( 

Castle Dangerous 15 

Legend of Montrose 15 

The Surgeon’s Daughter. 10 

Heart of Mid-Lothian C' i 

Waverley 20 

Fortunes of Nigel 20 

Peveril of the Peak 30 

The Pirate 20 

Poetical Works 40 

Redgauntlet '5 

Woodstock 20 

Count Robert of Paris . 201 

The Abbot 20 

Quentin Duiavard 20 

The Talisman 2‘i 

St. Ronan’s Well -0 

Anne of Geiersti in 2’0 

A unt Margaret’s M irror 10 

Chronicles of the Canongate 1 " 

The Monastery 2 ? 

Guy Mannering 20 

Kenilworth 25 

The Antiquary 20 

Rob Roy 20 

The Betrothed 20 


Fair Maid of Perth. 


?0 


Old Mortality 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

Flenrette 20 


BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns .. .10 

BY M-ARY W. SHELLEY 

5 Frankeusicbi 10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

' 549 Complete' Poetical Works 30 


LimiAKY 


Lovell’s 


BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Naiitz Family 20 

BY J. H. SHOSTHOUSE 

8o2 Sir Percival 10 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 

125 Haunted Hearts 10 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

640 The Partisan SO 

648 Mellich ampe 80 

653 The Yemassee 30 

657 Katherine Walton 30 

662 Southward Ho! 30 

671 The Scout 30 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin 30 

677 Vasconselos 30 

680 Confession 30 

684 W ood craft 30 

687 Richard Hurdis 30 

690 Guy Rivers 30 

693 Border Beagles 30 

697 The Forayers 30 

702 Charlemont SO 

703 Eutaw 30 

705 Beauchampe 30 

BY EDITH SIMCOX 

513 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY HAWLEY SMART 

780 Bad to Beat 10 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

425 Self-Help 25 

BY A. SMITH 

594 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

110 False Hopes 15 

424 Life of Cowper 10 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma 15 

BY S. M. SMUCIIER 

248 Life of Webster, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY STARKWEATHER AND 
WILSON 

461 Socialism 10 

BY STSPNIAK 

173 Underground Russia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

767 Kidnapped 20 

768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hyde 10 

769 Prince Otto 10 

770 The Dynamiter. . 20 

7!)3 New A.rabian Nights 20 

819 Treasure I sland ,2 


BY HESBA STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out ..20 

BY EUGENE SUE 

772 Mysteries of Paris, 2 Parts, each . . .20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 


BY DEAN SWIFT 

68 GuUiver’s Travels 20 

BY CHA3. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURNE. 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 Life of Shelley 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Taine's English Literature 40 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

446 Poerns 40 

BY W. M. THACKERAY 

141 Henry Esmond ... .20 

143 Denis Duval 20 

148 Catherine 10 

156 Level, the Widower 10 

164 Barry Lyndon 20 

1172 Vanity Fair 30 

j 193 History of Pendennis, 2 Parts, each.. 20 

211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 

I 220 Book of Snobs 10 

1229 Paris Sketches 20 

I 235 Adventures of Philip, 2 Parts, each . . 15 

; 238 The Virginians, 2 Parts, each 20 

{ 252 Critical Reviews, etc 10 

' 256 Eastern Sketches 10 

; 262 Fatal f-:oots, etc 10 

I 264 The Four Georges 10 

280 F.tzboodle Papers, etc 10 

j 283 Roundabout Papers 20 

j 285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

I 286 Cox's Diaiy, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

296 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christmas Books 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers 10 

309 Sketches and Travels in London . . ..10 

313 English Humorists 15 

316 Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

320 The Rose and the Ring 10 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 

21 The Green Mountain Boys 20 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part 1 20 

94 Tempe.st Tossed, Part II 20 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, 

each ....15 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope.20 

344 Life of Thackeray 10 

367 An Old Man’s Love 15 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

id. The Count of Talavera 20 


LOVELL’S 

i. ATTEST 


LIBRARY. 

ISSUES. 


730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay. 20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

732 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. 20 

733 A Qaeen amongst Women, by Clay. 10 

734 Vineta, by E, Werner 20 

735 A Mental Struggle, The Duchess.. 20 
730 Geoffrey llanilyn, by H. Kingnley. 30 

737 The Haunted Chamber, “Duchess’MO 

738 A Golden Diiwn, by B. M. Clay 10 

739 Like no Other Love, by B. M. Clay. 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay. 20 

741 LorimerarM Wife, by Margaret Lee. 20 

742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland. 10 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Beacon’s Bargain, Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland. 10 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin.. .20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody s Story, by Hugh Conway. 10 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay... .20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland.lO 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai. 20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau... .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Pait II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Braddon 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson 20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L. Stevenson. . 10 

769 Prince 6i.to, by R. L. Stevens* m. . .10 

770 The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevenson. 20 

771 The Old iVIara’selle’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part 11., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Keade.20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDumas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The Wan lering Jew. Part 1 1., by Sue.20 

777 A Seconil Life, by Mrs. Alexander. 20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris.. 10 


780 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart. . . .10 

781 Betty’s Vision.s, by Broughton 15 


782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon 20 

784 Ties Miserables, Part I., by Hugo.. 20 
784 Les MiseralJes, Part II., by Hugo. 20 
784 Les Miserables, Part HI., by Hugo. 20 


785 Social Solutions, No. 9, by Howland.lO 

786 Twenty Years After, oy Dumas.... 20 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 

788 Social Solutions, No. 10 by Howland.lO 

789 Charles O’Malley, P’t 1 , by Lever. 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, P't II., by Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by Ouida 20 

791 Social Solutions, No. 11. by Howland.lO 

792 Her Week’s Amusement, by ‘’The 

Ducliess” 10 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t I , by Lever.20 
794 Tom Burke of Ours, P til., by Lever.20 


795 Social Solutions, No 12, byHowland.lO 

796 Property in Land, by Henry George. 15 

797 A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee. 10 

798 The Prince of the Hundred Soups, 

by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wife, or Wid- w? by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay. 10 

802 Lady Vahvorth's Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M, Clay 10 

804 Madolin's Lover, by B. M. Clay 20 

805 A House Party, by Ouida 10 

806 From Out the Gloom, by Clay 20 

807 Which Loved Him Best? by Clay.. 10 

808 A True Magdalen, by B. M. Clay. 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter, by Clay. 10 

811 A Golden Heart, by B. M. Clay.... 10 

812 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay. 20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

814 Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 

815 A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Clay. .20 


816 The Broken Seal, by Dora Russell. 20 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince, by 

Commander Lovett-Cameron 29 

818 Once Again, by Mrs. Forrester... ,20 


819 Treasure Island, by Stevenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding, by Carl* ten 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake, by V. il- 

liam Carleton 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral, by 

William Carleton 10 

823 The Midnight Mass, by Cadeton...l0 

824 Phil Parcel, by AYilliam Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 Going to Maynooth, by CarU t< n 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Conr ^hip, by 

William Carleton 10 

828 Dominick the I’oor S< ho ai-, by 

William Carleton 10 

829 Neal Malone, by William Carleton.. 10 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 The Son of His Father. by Oliphant.20 


832 Sir Percival, by J. H. Shorthouse..l0 

833 A Vo 3 ^age to the Cape, by Russell. .20 

834 Jack’s Courtship, by Russell ..20 

835 A Sailor's Sweetheart, by Russell.. 20 

836 On the Fo’k’.sle Head, liy Russell. ..20 

837 M rked “la Jli.ste,' b,. R losevelt. . 20 


Any of the above c.in be o’ot.ained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will be 
sent free by mail, on rcce.pt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. J.OVELL COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND It) Yeskv 8'1'KEET, NeW Yt)' 



distressing* ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specilio for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

pAs a powerful, invigorating 
tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” dcr 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing- mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a sootliing and strengtlien- 
Ing nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 

carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless in its effects in any 
condition of the sj-stem. 

‘‘Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak back, “female weak- 
ness,” anteversion, retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that trj^- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
Avhen, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 

onlj^ medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Farge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 

■World's Dispensary Medical Association, 
Ko. 66S Main Street, BUFFALO^ N. K 


















































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' ' Ja' Aa'AH!;!: 


mtamBom 




viiW^WswifSrSi 

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In B Bn BHppHHH^HRHpB 














